


A Dish Served Cold

by Teej



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Case Fic, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-19
Updated: 2011-04-08
Packaged: 2017-10-17 02:45:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 48,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/172083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teej/pseuds/Teej
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John believes people don't have arch enemies; Lestrade's case-closed rate proves him wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks are in order for LJ user's bethia for her britpicking & beta work. To kaazei for the awesome brainstorming sessions, and while I had her, to sunken_standard for as long as she was able to last. Several others were able to start out with this and to them I give thanks as well. It is shocking me still that after 4 years of writers block I am finally posting a completed fic at last.
> 
> THIS IS A COMPLETED FIC. 48,000+ words.

Chapter 1

As they cut along the back, hugging the opposite wall from the theatre, the last person John Watson expected to see was Detective Inspector Lestrade. Yet there he was, standing just under the solitary light of the backstage door where he was shielded by several security guards. They formed a loose barrier in front of him and kept at bay an eager crowd of hopefuls trying to catch a glimpse or get an autograph of someone important.

“Lestrade?”

The sound of his name being called in the crowd caused the man in question to pause. John caught his eye, flashed a brief smile and angled his way through the streaming theatre crowd towards where the detective was standing. He felt Sarah's hand slip through the crook of his arm as he led the way.

“John?” she asked. There was a puzzled frown on her face.

“It's all right,” he said, “There's someone I'd like to you meet. A friend of mine.”

Lestrade had turned to focus his attention on the pair as they made their way towards him. He caught the eye of one of the guards who was about to head them off, giving him the faintest of nods. The guard immediately relaxed and disregarded them as they approached.

For once Lestrade wasn't looking like he'd spent one too many late nights at work, to John's mild surprise. He wore a better suit than his normal attire, including a tie, and a thick dark overcoat was draped over one arm. Standing near the back stage entrance, he had all the appearance of a man who was patiently waiting for the crowd to disappear. His dark intense eyes habitually scanned the crowd before settling on John.

“Doctor,” he greeted formally as he turned towards the pair. He extended his hand and grasped John's firmly, flashing a brief smile. “Good evening.”

“Evening, what brings you here tonight? This is the last place I'd expect to see you.” John frankly admitted.

Lestrade smirked, nodding his head. “Same thing could be said for you. I'm surprised you're not running around after Himself.” Sherlock silently loomed between their conversation.

John chuckled, “He has a new journal on blood spatter analysis occupying his attention, I thought I'd grab my chance and get out of the flat.” He squeezed Sarah's hand. Her smile of comradely acknowledgement caused the Inspector's eyes to shift from John to her. She obviously knew Sherlock.

“Forgive me,” John apologized with a smile to her, “Sarah, this is Detective Inspector Lestrade. Lestrade? Sarah Sawyer, from the practice.”

“Ms. Sawyer,” he offered a hand, which she took with a firm grip, smiling at him.

“Please, too many formalities, call me Sarah.”

“Greg.” Lestrade automatically supplied, liking this acquaintance of the doctor immediately. Years of working for the Yard had honed his ability to assess, and file, a person in split seconds. This was a good one.

“You're not working tonight are you?” John asked, looking curiously at him.

Lestrade shook his head, glanced over the crowd. “Got the night off,” he said vaguely, eyeing the crowd. “For a change.”

“And you came to the ballet?”

“Anything wrong with that?” Lestrade replied, then glanced away, pursing his lips in amusement. Old habits died hard. Responding with a question to a question was second nature.

“No, nothing wrong with that at all.” John ruefully admitted.

“So what brings you here?” Lestrade fired back.

Sarah smothered a slight laugh at their mutual, if humorous, reluctance to admit to it first, “It's my fault, really, I wanted to come. I've loved the ballet since I was a girl.”

“Nonsense,” John replied, glancing her way. “I'm happy to come with you.” He looked back at Lestrade. “You're waiting for someone?”

“Deduce that did you? You've been hanging around Sherlock too long...” Lestrade murmured in amusement. Then he relented. “Only real reason to be hanging around a stage door in an alley is if you're waiting for someone.”

At that moment the back stage door opened, causing a surge in the crowd of autograph seekers. The security guards tensed. A uniformed man appeared in the doorway who looked around before spotting Lestrade. He beckoned to him for his attention as the crowd ebbed back to murmurs of disappointment.

“Inspector,” he said, handing over a dark duffel bag. “She asked me to give this to you. She's on her way.”

“Ah, thanks.” Lestrade replied, taking the pack and slinging it casually around his shoulder. The guard nodded and vanished back inside. As the door clicked shut he glanced at John, seeing the expectant look on his face as he waited for an answer. “I'm waiting for my, uh,” he paused, “for my wife.”

He was expecting the blink of surprise. He wasn't wearing his ring.

“Your wife?” John asked and Lestrade could see the genuine curiosity in his face. “I didn't realize you were mar...” Before he could finish Lestrade cut him off.

“Separated,” Lestrade said. “Been separated for some time. We're trying to work it out.”

“Ah,” John started when the door began to open again. This time the security provided a bit more of a blockade as the crowd moved forward again.

A very small, blonde woman, obviously one of the dancers, was emerging through the door. She was bundled up against the cold, collar flipped up and she glanced up at Lestrade with a slight frown of worry on her face. He had moved from his spot, positioning himself between her and the crowd. His overcoat was in his hands, where he was preparing to drape it over her shoulders.

Sarah, eyes large in surprise, spoke up, “Elena...?” She started to speak in astonishment when she caught herself in her error. The woman looked at Sarah and John and smiled slightly at Sarah's gaffe.

“No, not her...” she said softly, as Lestrade settled his coat around her, his hands dropping protectively into place on her shoulders. “Just her understudy.” She patted one of Lestrade's hands and glanced up at him, an eyebrow raised in curiosity.

“Sarah, John... this is my wife, Anne. Anne, this is John Watson and Sarah Sawyer.” Lestrade made the introduction. Mutual greetings were exchanged.

“Anne?” Sarah, her mind racing started, then blushed. “Forgive me, Leigh-Anne Richardson? One of the company's soloists?”

“You know the company,” Anne smiled at her.

“John, this is one of the first soloists for the Royal Ballet. She was one of the main dancers we watched tonight.” Sarah explained.

“And you're obviously an admirer of the ballet,” Anne said.

“Oh, yes. I thought you were the Principal Soloist!” Sarah replied. “Forgive me for the mistake. You danced beautifully tonight.”

“Thank you. And don't worry about the confusion, it happens a lot. Elena and I look similar. Except for our hair.” She looked up at Lestrade as he began to edge them past the security guards and the crowd.

As a few approached he said, “Not tonight folks,” with enough authority to get his point across. He was silently pleased when John, bless the man's military back ground, fell into place beside him inserting Sarah into the circle. He leaned forward, “Car's round the corner,” he murmured to Anne, guiding the way, his hands still on her shoulders. She flashed a grateful smile.

“Are you up for dinner? I know its late and all...” John started to offer as they approached the alley entrance to the main road. The cacophony of noises from the traffic increased as the four approached several waiting limousines and expensive cars obviously queued up to receive guests and performers alike.

Lestrade glanced at Anne, “It's nice of you, John, but...” he started.

“Forgive me for saying no,” Anne said. “It's me. After a performance, I like nothing more than to go home to a hot soak and a foot massage.”

Sarah laughed. “After the work out you get, I can just bet that that is pure heaven.”

“That's fine,” John conceded with a smile of understanding. “Of course you'd want to call it a night.”

“Another time maybe?” Anne asked, glancing briefly at Lestrade.

“All depends on our schedules,” was his careful response.

“Well you know where I can be reached,” John replied as they headed towards some parked cars.

“Thank you...” Anne smiled at them, “And it was nice meeting you,” she said to Sarah as Lestrade lead the way towards an immaculate dark Bentley limousine. There was an audible click as automatic door locks were disengaged and the chauffeur, already standing outside waiting for them, reached to open the passenger door.

“Likewise!” Sarah replied, watching as Lestrade held the door for his wife.

Saying their farewells, John and Sarah watched the car pulled out then was swept along by the traffic.

“Remarkable,” John murmured.

“What is?” Sarah asked as they turned and began wandering through the late night crowds.

“I never realized Lestrade was married, much less separated.”

“He did say they were working things out. They seem amicable.”

“Got to be tough with their schedules.”

Sarah let out a huff of amusement. “His, or hers? A detective Inspector and a first soloist for a ballet company? That's got to be brutal on a marriage. Still... he seemed rather protective, in a good way.” She slipped her hand back into the crook of John's arm, and smiled at him. He was staring after the Bentley, his mouth a moue of thought.

“What is it?”

“I know roughly what Lestrade would earn at the Yard, where would he get the money to afford a limo? She couldn't afford one as well, could she?”

“Oh come on, special night on the town and you're wife just happens to be performing? No big mystery there.” Sarah laughed. “He hired one.”

“No, I suppose not. And why not just meet inside? Why wait to go out the back entrance?”

“You have been hanging around Sherlock too long,” Sarah murmured looking at him in amusement.

John snorted softly, smirking. “Dinner invite still stands, especially knowing you don't have to work tomorrow.” John replied, smiling at her.

“A hot soak and a foot massage sounds even better,” she joked, glancing at him.

“Hmmm...” John mused, a look of interest crossing his features.

Sarah laughed, hugging his arm to her as they began walking. “Dinner first, your stomach just growled.”

*

Anne and Greg were barely settled in the back of the car when his mobile went off. With his face carefully maintaining a neutral expression, he had the phone out and was looking at its screen, his eyes scanning a text. He sensed Anne holding her breath before turning her head away from him, relaxing into the seat, letting out a sigh.

“That was the head of the other security detail. Elena is out of the building and headed home.” He tucked the phone away and looked at Anne. “There's no sign of her stalker.”

“Good,” she said, turning to him. “Then it worked?”

He studied her a moment, a ghost of smirk on his lips, before nodding his head. “Yes,” he said slowly, “it worked.”

Anne said nothing, but the smile that lit her face said plenty.

He heaved a sigh. “It worked for now,” he warned and there was no hiding the reluctance that crept into his voice. “We don't know yet if he's following us.”

“Greg, I know you don't like it, but believe me when I tell you that Elena appreciates it. She's still scared silly about this mess.”

“You should be too,” he said levelly. “Whoever this stalker of hers is could easily mistake you for her.”

“Which is the idea at the moment, right? Let him follow me, give the police some time to figure out who he is and what he wants. Not to mention giving Elena some peace of mind.”

“And what about my peace of mind? I'm not exactly thrilled that someone could be stalking my wife. Besides that, you're still a bit too trusting.”

“Oh Greg, let's not start that again...”

“I just worry, Anne. You know that.” He looked pointedly at her. She knew that his ability to assess people had left a bad feeling in him towards her ballet superior.

“She was so scared when she showed me what he'd left for her. She knows he's been following her around. I just want to help her out. Nobody deserves that kind of stress.”

“And what about the stress of watching you put yourself in the line of someone else's fire?” He countered. “Anything could happen. You know I can't always be around to help like this.”

“At least it's given us an opportunity to be together.” Anne replied quickly. The words had barely left her mouth when she closed her eyes in regret, reaching up to place a hand over her mouth. Lestrade didn't move, but his features suddenly looked etched in stone, a stoic mask falling into place.

“I'm sorry, Greg,” Anne breathed, turning away from him. “That was uncalled for. I'm sorry.” Her shoulders dropped as she stared out the window of the car.

“It's bad enough letting you play decoy,” he said in a low quiet voice. “It's worse when it is the only way we can be together. You know I don't like bringing work home.”

“I said I was sorry.” An uncomfortable silence filled the car.

Several seconds passed before Lestrade heaved a weary sigh, sinking into the car seat as his shoulders relaxed. He studied her for a moment, then reached over, and slipped an arm across her shoulders, tugging her towards him. She struggled to hide her shame, but the hint of trepidation in her eyes caused the little knife of guilt in the pit of his stomach to twist.

“It's okay, Anne, it's okay. We get precious little time as it is, no sense arguing about it.” He murmured, his normally intense eyes glinting with warmth. He smiled softly and before she could turn away he added, “You were lovely tonight.”

She blinked once in surprise utterly unable to hide the look of disbelief. “Were you there?” she asked.

“For the whole performance. I did tell you I have the night off tonight,” he raised his eyebrows in mock reprimand.

Anne stared at him for a moment then dropped her head in chagrin. Sighing, she clutched the lapels of his overcoat still draped around her and settled back into the crook of his arm. “Somehow I thought you were only going to be there for the security switch,” she said quietly. “Plans change so fast for us.”

“Had a slow day today. Donovan can handle anything that may come up. Unless it's too big. So,” he paused, “I thought I would spend it with you since we're already together.” The look of hope far back in her eyes twisted the knife a little more, but Lestrade put a stop to it.

“You mean,” she started, warily.

Lestrade just smiled at her. “My place or yours? I haven't told him yet.” He nodded his head at their chauffeur.

Anne didn't reply, but she reached over to settle a hand on his knee. “You know I'm not good for much of anything after a performance.”

“Does it matter?” he asked. Anne frowned a little, turning her head to look at him. A soft smile tugged at his lips. “Maybe I'd just like to spend some time with my wife?” He murmured. She didn't respond right away, her eyes just searched his face, his hair, his eyes. She reached up, setting the backs of her fingers against his cheek.

Quietly she replied, “Your place, then.”

Lestrade studied her a moment, “You sure?” he asked. When she nodded he reached forward and rapped his knuckle against the glass separating the chauffeur from the passengers. He gave the driver the address then he pulled Anne even closer to him, wrapping his arms around her. Settling his cheek against the side of her head, he relaxed a little more. “I've missed you.”

He sensed rather than saw her smile as she relaxed.

“I've missed you too, Greg,” she said with hint of sadness in her voice. “Very much.”

*

In appallingly expensive London he lived surprisingly close to New Scotland Yard. Not within walking distance but accessible in minutes by rail and tube. He had found his flat well before ever meeting Anne and had rented it until the owner opted to put it on the market. Creative finagling with his (then) smaller salary and an inheritance from his parents helped to get a mortgage he could withstand.

After marrying Anne her salary helped some, but as time progressed and their schedules kept driving them further apart, Anne eventually rented herself a ridiculously tiny studio flat closer to the Royal Ballet in Covent Garden. Still, Lestrade's sixth floor flat had a nice view of Battersea Park and for being in London, it was also peaceful. Peace that he craved, especially when needing time to unwind from the various horrors of investigating the absolute worst humankind could do to one another. In emergencies, the Yard would often send a car around to pick him up.

Getting out of the limo, he looked around quickly, scanning for anything suspicious before he turned and reached for Anne's duffel bag. Shouldering it, he offered her his hand as she climbed out after him. It was colder and now that she was unwinding from the performance, she was shivering almost the instant she got out of the car.

“Stay close,” he murmured to her. Anne frowned, clutching his coat around her and looking around in dismay.

“Did you see something?”

“No, I'm just being cautious. I'd've had a text if something had come up. Besides, you're freezing and I'm warm.” He reached down to take her hand in his and led the way to the entrance. Anne snickered softly at him and obligingly drew in closer. He glanced around again while opening the door for her, feeling the faintest of itches between his shoulders but he shrugged it off when he saw nothing out of order and followed her inside.

Being so late, there was no one in the main lobby and his neighbours had long ago got used to him coming and going at very odd hours of the day or night. It was here he relaxed a little more, it was home and the place had a fairly good security system. Anne heard his sigh of relief, and glanced up at him as they entered the lift.

“Greg, I'm sorry...” she said to him, “For causing you so much trouble.”

The door swished shut and as they adjusted to the jerk of the lift, he replied. “Nonsense, the Met boys will get things sorted out. At least you have me for protection, should we need it.”

“I do at that,” she grinned as the lift came to a stop and they stepped out onto the silent sixth floor. He had his keys out by the time they reached the door. It swung in and he held it as Anne went ahead of him. She instinctively reached up and flipped the lights on before heading for the lounge. Greg followed setting the duffel on the floor and nudging the door shut with his foot.

He headed for the kitchen. As he entered he heard Anne gasp, a horror filled intake of air, followed by her indignant demand of, “What are you doing?”

Lestrade, feeling his veins turn to ice at the sound of his wife's sudden outburst, moved her way only to be met with someone hitting his jaw hard enough to nearly send him to the floor in a blinding flash of pain and light.

He was up in seconds, barely managing to keep from getting slammed into the fridge as he ducked low and then came up, fighting to keep his head clear. He focused on a man dressed entirely in dark clothes who was preparing to take another swing at him. In the living room he could hear items breaking as Anne shrieked again demanding to know what was going on, then her even more terrified screaming for him.

Galvanized, Lestrade laid into the assailant in front of him, short, hard, furious jabs to the ribs and kidneys as he tried overpowering the man. He knew he was causing damage by the sounds coming from the assailant. He grabbed the balaclava off the man's face. For a brief second they made eye contact, Lestrade's eyes dark with deadly intent, a feral smile flashing across his face. His fist flew and he felt the satisfying crunch of cartilage as he broke the man's nose, rocking his head back, causing him to crash into the kitchen cupboards. He had his hand on the man's throat, trying to pin him to the work surface as he drew his fist back for another swing.

With his attention so wholly focused on taking the man before him out, Lestrade never saw another man come up behind him. The second assailant threw an arm around Greg's neck in a choke hold, wrestling him back off of the man he was beating on. Lestrade grabbed the arm around his throat, aiming a furious kick into the groin of the first assailant before he managed to wrench the second assailant around. He planted both his feet hard on the ground, stooped and shoved with everything he had, trying to throw the second assailant into the first.

“Anne!” he roared, barely catching sight of her being hauled backwards by a third man. She was wildly kicking out at a fourth and putting up a furious struggle in her own right. By the time Lestrade began to realize they had been totally overpowered, he didn't see a fifth man approaching him as the man who he had thrown managed to kick his feet out from underneath him.

Lestrade twisted to land on his hands and knees and was levering himself back up when he felt a knee hit his spine, slamming him back down as his legs were pinned. One of them grabbed him by the arm, jerking it back up and around, forcing his face to the floor. He was raging by then, as someone grabbed him by his hair, strong fingers gripping his skull, pulling his head up. He felt his jacket being jerked back, trapping his arms, causing him to struggle even more furiously. With a sickening feeling, he felt a man's hand under his jacket, running down his shirt, prodding at his ribs, as he was being effectively pinned to his kitchen floor.

He felt the knife being stuck in his back before he consciously registered the 'snick' of the blade being released. He sucked in an involuntary gasp of air, before the pain crashed over his senses, blinding him. Somewhere he heard an animal-like roar of rage, not fully realizing it was himself. Within moments he was beginning to shiver despite still struggling to fight. Lestrade felt his head being jerked toward his living room as one of the assailants ripped the arm off of his jacket to push his shirtsleeve past his elbow.

Horrified, Lestrade couldn't help but see Anne pinned to the living room floor by two men, one of whom was just inserting a hypodermic needle into her arm. Tears were streaming down her cheeks as she locked eyes with him. Sound became distorted as Lestrade heard her calling for him, and all he could do was watch in helpless rage. She began to weaken, and was still trying to struggle as Greg watched something suspiciously like an oxygen mask being placed over her face. Distantly he felt something being stabbed into his own arm.

Shivering, he could feel a growing wet, warmth in his side as he continued trying to rid himself of his attackers to no avail, a stream of invectives spewing from his mouth as he raged; helpless to do anything. Whatever drug being injected into his system worked appallingly fast in his violent struggling. Lestrade felt the desperate hold he had on his consciousness begin to slip away.

As his view began to constrict and dim, his last sight was of his wife lying unconscious, followed by the futile realization that he hadn't been able to a thing to protect and save her.

*

It was quiet, dark and cold when Lestrade began to come around. Befuddled, he realized he was laying face first on his kitchen floor. Nausea washed over him as he tried to get his senses to work together. Shivering, he looked to his left into the living room, barely lit by the night time lights from outside his balcony. It was far too quiet. The living room looked all askew. He knew something was seriously wrong with him, and that it was clouding his judgment. He fumbled at his jacket, barely registering that his shirt was completely unbuttoned, then winced in pain at something constricting his torso. Struggling to keep from passing out, he pulled out his mobile, his thumb automatically hitting a preset speed dial. Within seconds he heard a man's voice but couldn't make out the words of what he said. Lestrade gathered his own strength, trying to roll onto his back, groaning out loud in pain.

“This is Detective Inspector Lestrade!” He managed to gasp. “There's been a B&E, in my home...” When he did manage to roll onto his back, he very nearly passed out. He gripped the phone, his other hand running through something warm and wet on the floor beside him. Feeling his rather tenuous hold on consciousness begin to fail him he managed to add, “I'm injured, I need help, my wife is...” he blinked, listening for sounds in the house while holding the phone to his ear.

As his consciousness began to slip he called out, “Anne? Anne!”


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

On the whole, it had been a rather pleasant evening, John thought, after having seen Sarah safely home. He climbed up the stairs to the street level from the Tube, feeling a buzz of satisfaction. Idly, he noticed that contentment had settled upon him, considering all the activities he had endured in the past several months. Mike had been right, he would never have been happy living outside of London. And sharing the flat with Sherlock was... interesting.

Glancing at his watch, he saw it was almost two in the morning, yet even at that time of the night, there were still a lot of cars and activity. Central London, rarely slept. He was, however, feeling pleasantly tired and was thinking of nothing else but getting home and going to bed. Which was why he nearly ended up flat on his back in the middle of the pavement when Sherlock abruptly burst out of the door of 221B.

The only thing that kept him on his feet was Sherlock, grabbing him by the arm and swinging him around away from the door, using the momentum of his fall to actually keep him on his feet.

“You're needed. Emergency.” Sherlock announced, stepping out into the road to wave down a taxi.

Staggering to maintain his balance, John looked momentarily bewildered, before fixing a steely eyed gaze at his flatmate's back. “If this is another one of your...” he started as a taxi veered towards them.

“It's an emergency,” Sherlock repeated, cutting him off. He jerked the car door open, actually stepping aside to let John get in first for a change, as he delved a hand into the pocket of his coat and hauled out money. He leaned over, beckoning the cabbie to roll down his window.

John was about to refuse until he saw the £50 note Sherlock was holding before the cabbie's nose.

“This is yours if you can get us to Lurline Gardens in the next ten minutes.”

“What is it?” John managed to ask as they scrambled into the cab which took off before they could even get the door closed.

“999 call.” Sherlock said, pulling his mobile out as John looked at him with increasing doubt.

“You're answering 999 calls now?”

“Yes, a B&E with injuries, which is why you're needed.” Sherlock said, then turned the mobile for John to see. “The number is still up.”

“You're answering a breaking and entering call? Since when have you decided to scan the poli...” Frowning John stared a moment before connecting the number with the name. “Is that Lestrade?” He looked startled.

Sherlock barely managed to refrain from rolling his eyes at the obvious as he glanced at the phone again before tucking it away.

“I just saw him, not three hours ago!”

Sherlock's pale eyes fixed on him, “You saw Lestrade? Tonight? When?”

“Coming out of the back of the Royal Opera House. About 11:00.”

“His wife...” Sherlock murmured.

“We met her. I didn't even know he's married. What's this about a 999 call? And injuries?” John paused, “And more to the point, why would he call you?

“Well, I'd like to think because he had a brain in his head, but that's not the case, here.” Sherlock replied dryly. “Why was he meeting her at the back entrance?”

“How should I know?”

Sherlock heaved a sigh and sat back, his eyes gaining that faraway look he got when deep in thought. Reining in his own frustration, John watched the city race by as the cabbie took advantage of every second he could to get them to their destination in time.

He made it with three minutes to spare.

The cabbie deposited them on a quiet street corner almost directly across from Battersea Park. Here the traffic was far lighter, there were no people about and the many flats and condos in the area were, for the most part, dark. John looked around and, seeing no sign of police activity, set off after Sherlock, who was walking quickly towards one of the buildings. John followed him inside as he headed for the lift. Sherlock jabbed the button with his thumb, while reaching into a pocket and extracting a small roll of canvas, held fast with a snap.

“Where exactly are we going?” John asked as they stepped into the lift. He deliberately ignored the fact that Sherlock was unrolling a very professional looking set of lock picks.

“Lestrade's flat.” Sherlock said examining the tools a moment. He extracted two of them, before rolling the canvas back up.

“His flat...” John started, his mind racing then he snapped his fingers and held out his hand. “Hand it over.”

“Hand what over?” Sherlock asked, slipping the two picks up his sleeve.

“You know damn well what. If this is a B&E, I'm going in first with my gun. Now hand it over. You wouldn't have left the flat without it.”

Sherlock smirked ever so slightly as he glanced at John, who just stood patiently, eyes front, holding out his hand. Sherlock dug into another pocket and produced a black Sig Sauer. John shot an aggravated look at him, snagging the gun from Sherlock's hand. Pointing it at the floor, he quickly determined that the magazine was fully loaded, checked the slide, released the safety, then he gripped it in his right hand.

The lift stopped on the sixth floor and John deliberately stepped in front of Sherlock, blocking his way, as the door slid open. It was deathly quiet. He looked up and down the hall, then he stepped out, concealing the weapon under the flap of his coat. Sherlock immediately headed right, while John looked around again.

It didn't surprise John in the least that Sherlock had Lestrade's door unlocked in matter of seconds. He was getting ready to push it open when John stopped him, pushing him to the side. “Give me your torch.” He said in a voice that brooked no argument.

Sherlock's lips curled in an amused smirk as he secreted away the lock picks and then pulled out a slim, police-issue torch and passed it over. Saying nothing, John gripped the torch in his left hand, and balanced his right hand on top of it, thumbing on the torch switch. He gave a nod to Sherlock, who had stepped to one side of the door, to be out of the direct line of any fire. He reached over and carefully pushed open the door.

With his foot, John nudged the door open further. He aimed the gun and light inside, pausing a few seconds to get his bearings. From what he could see the lounge was a wreck. It seemed also that nothing moved, until he heard a groan. Frowning, he cautiously entered the flat as Sherlock, with a wry smile, reached around the doorway and snapped on the light switch.

“Dammit!” John hissed at him as Sherlock followed. He was about to say more when his gaze fell upon the scene on the kitchen floor. “Dear God!”

Lestrade lay on his back in a small pool of blood, trying to move in an attempt to roll onto his side. John rushed forward as Sherlock paused, gently pushing the door shut as his gaze swept across the room. His eyes fell on the scene in the kitchen and as John was about to drop to his knees next to Greg he snapped out, “John! Wait!”

John shot a look of pure indignation at him as Sherlock approached and was about to ignore him when Sherlock's fingers dug into John's shoulder. “Look.” He pointed at Lestrade's arm and torso.

“Tell me later!” John snapped, shrugging Sherlock's hand off his shoulder. He passed the gun and torch back to Sherlock, then stepped over Lestrade, past the blood and dropped to his knees. “Lestrade? Greg! Can you hear me..?” He reached out and set his fingers on Greg's neck, feeling for a pulse.

Lestrade nearly came up off the floor, a growl of rage escaping his lips, as he tried to take a swing at John. Eyes widening in surprise, John instinctively grabbed Lestrade's wrist and forced him back down to the floor with his other arm across his chest. The result was Lestrade groaning in pain and collapsing. “Greg, it's John!” he said, a commanding tone in his voice. “John Watson. Stop struggling, you've been injured.”

His chest heaving at the effort, Lestrade looked confused. He tried to roll again but John's weight across his chest kept him firmly in place.

John looked at Lestrade's torso with a frown trying to assess the situation. “Calm down, Greg, let me take a look here. You have to stop struggling, you're bleeding. Try to relax for me, you've got to try!” He looked back at Greg, reaching up to check his eyes.

Lestrade blinked in confusion as the fight slowly left him and he sank back down. “John?” he asked as John frowned in puzzlement. “Where's Anne?” he managed to gasp out, before he groaned again, rolling his head in pain.

John looked out into the lounge, Sherlock had moved to the centre of the room, standing stock still. He couldn't see anyone else as he returned his attention back to Lestrade.

“Where's Anne?” Lestrade managed to grate out, his face looking alarmingly pale. Still blinking in confusion, his eyes were refusing to focus correctly.

“I don't know, Greg, you've got to relax, man! I need to check this out...” He was looking at the sodden mess of Lestrade's shirt and jacket when it fully struck him what wasn't right with the picture. Reaching down, he flipped the unbuttoned shirt open. “What the hell!?” he exploded, staring.

Someone had already bound Lestrade's wound.

“I _told_ you to look.” Sherlock's faraway voice drifted back. John glared in the direction of the balcony, suddenly noticing the drop in temperature from where Sherlock had opened the sliding door. He was crouched down, pinning something to the balcony deck with one of the lock picks as he pulled a small object out of his pocket. John only scowled and looked down again, reaching over to check the bandages and assess the severity of the wound. He shook his head in disbelief. In attacking Lestrade, someone had also ripped the arm off of Lestrade's jacket, shoving his shirtsleeve up past his elbow.

“You'll find a needle track,” Sherlock informed him from the balcony as John gripped Lestrade's elbow examining his arm. He instantly spotted the tiny blood trickle and what looked to be a nasty bruise forming under the surface. He hadn't just been given an injection, the thing had been stabbed into his arm.

“Anne?” Lestrade managed to gasp, bringing John back to full attention. He spotted Lestrade's mobile lying nearby. Snatching it up, he called emergency services as he began a methodical assessment of Lestrade's condition.

“Greg, listen to me,” John said firmly. “You must relax, we've got to control this bleeding. Just relax, help is on the way.” He looked out over the lounge again. It looked like a bomb had hit it and he realized to his dismay that Sherlock wasn't on the balcony. Greg's moan brought him back to his senses and John looked to see him drop his head to the floor, his face nearly grey.

“Sherlock!” John shouted out, mobile still to his ear, “What's the damn address?”

Hearing nothing, John scowled. “Listen,” he ordered into the phone, “My name is Doctor John Watson. I'm in the flat of Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade, he's been attacked and stabbed. I need both medical and police services here immediately!” Knowing that would get some sort of response, John scrambled to his feet, searching the wreck of the living room for a blanket. He spotted a throw, grabbed it from the sofa and draped it over Lestrade. Issuing more orders over the mobile, he turned sharply at the sound of something heavy landing on the balcony and looked to see Sherlock standing back upright.

He didn't even want to know what Sherlock had just done and turned his attention back to checking on the bandaging work already performed on Lestrade. It had been applied in haste, but was doing an admirable job of staunching the bleeding. He was checking on the wound itself when Sherlock appeared at his side.

“That came from behind,” he remarked. “A deep flesh wound. Roll him onto his side a moment, I want a better look.”

“He's not a corpse for you to play with!” John snapped. “I'm trying to keep him from going into shock.”

“Admirably well too. This will only take a second...” Before John could even react, Sherlock had dropped to a knee and levered Lestrade onto his side. He tugged the compress away while Lestrade groaned and John almost erupted. Before John could push him away, Sherlock had snapped open his little magnifying glass and was intently examining the entry point of the oozing wound.

“Flick knife, from the back, like I said. The wound will have missed all the vital organs.”

Glaring daggers at Sherlock, John focused on Lestrade as Sherlock got back up, walking into the lounge again. “Touch a patient of mine like that again...” he growled and paused. In the distance he could hear approaching sirens. “I won't gamble on even _your_ guessing in this case, it's his life on the line!”

“You tell that smarmy smug git...” Lestrade managed to whisper, the pain helping to clear some of the fog in his brain, “We'll have words about this.”

“No, you're going tell him. After we get you to hospital and taken care of.” John informed him trying to settle the man back down.

“How'd you get in here..?” Lestrade whispered.

“You miss-dialed.” Sherlock said flatly. “And it's a good thing you did too.” He moved over to the door.

“Greg what happened here?” John asked,

“Jumped,” Lestrade whispered, trying to think. “At least three men... Anne? Where is Anne? They had her.”

John looked at Lestrade in alarm feeling the hairs on the nape of his neck rise in alarm. “They had her?” he asked ominously, wondering if Lestrade was really fully coherent.

“Injected something into her arm,” Lestrade gasped, fighting to keep his eyes open. He frowned as he struggled to recall events.

“Rapid onset, short acting, barbiturate, if I were to _guess_.” Sherlock replied with a hint of sarcasm. He jerked the door open and added. “Same thing they shot you up with, enough to knock you out and keep you down while they took off with your wife.”

“What in God's name are you doing here!” A woman's voice demanded.

“Ah Donovan, wonderful to see you haven't changed in the slightest.” Sherlock replied dryly. “It's so nice to see some things stay so static.”

Donovan was about to reply when she caught sight of the scene on the kitchen floor.

“Don't ask, Donovan, I'll fill you in later, just get those EMT's in here!” John snapped, fully in command.

“God... Greg what happened?” Donovan started, ignoring John as she entered the flat.

“Sally! I mean now!” John ordered. By then several constables had shown up followed by a pair of paramedics.

“Doctor Watson?” One of the EMT's called.

“Here!” John shouted out, relieved that someone sane had finally arrived. “I've got a stabbing victim!” The paramedics rushed in and John began rattling off Lestrade's vitals and condition.

Donovan turned to one of the constables. “I need you to secure the hall, try and keep as many people out as you can. Including you.” She directed a glare at Sherlock. “And don't go anywhere, I want to know how you knew about all of this before we did.”

“Ask him...” Sherlock replied, looking over at Lestrade. Slipping his hands into his coat pockets he added. “He's the one who called me.”

Sally's head jerked around to look at Lestrade in shock. “He called...” She suddenly clamped her jaw shut, lifting her chin in defiance as she glared at Sherlock. “Step out of the flat, Freak. You're in an active crime scene. And I better not find out you've been snooping around contaminating it!”

“Far from snooping around. Ah, Dimmock, now the gang's almost all here.” Sherlock said dryly as a policeman was trying to usher him out the door.

“Sherlock?” Dimmock, in the hallway, looked at him in consternation. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Apparently contaminating crime scenes. All we need now to round out this happy little reunion is Anderson.”

“Donovan, what's this about an injury?” Dimmock was about to enter the flat when he saw the activity in the kitchen. He looked at Donovan sharply. “Is that...?” he started.

“It's Lestrade, he's been stabbed,” Donovan was looking at Dimmock with suspicion. “What are you doing here, sir?”

“Taking lead. This is his place and if he's the injured party, his team can't work it.”

“But I'm...” Donovan started.

“About to be superseded.” Sherlock chirped, as another pair of paramedics emerged from the lift, pulling a trolley loaded with their medical gear. He smiled at Sally's look of sheer indignation. “Conflict of interest, you know.”

“Sally,” John called out. She looked around sharply, and caught sight of him beckoning her with his hand. She shot a parting glare at Sherlock and stepped inside, followed by the two EMT's.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Donovan?” Lestrade managed to speak a little louder. She appeared behind John, her face looking stricken as she took in the state of her boss.

“Here sir,” she said, her voice abruptly constricted. She swallowed a lump that had suddenly formed in her voice.

“Listen up,” Lestrade started.

“Really Inspector,” one of the paramedics chided, “It can wait!” The others began unloading equipment from the trolley and cases were snapped open as the medical task at hand hit high gear. One of them tugged Lestrade's shirtsleeve up to apply a blood pressure cuff.

“No, it can't, his wife is missing,” John replied as he turned about to give orders to the paramedics. He stood up, waving Sally ahead of him, careful not to touch her with his blood covered hands. “Sally, let someone know that these bandages on him were not applied by me.”

She shot him a confused look, frowning in consternation as she began to crouch down. “What do you mean you didn't apply them?”

“I didn't apply them. Whoever was in this flat, whoever did this? Bandaged him up afterward. They may have evidence you can use.”

“Why the hell stab a man then bandage him up after?” She demanded.

John just shook his head and shrugged. “Why anesthetize him as well?”

“Donovan...” Lestrade said again.

“I'm here, I'm here,” she said quickly tearing her gaze from John to look at Lestrade. She crouched down next to him, sorely wanting to reach out and take his hand but refraining.

“Anne was with me,” he said trying to focus on her face. “Find Anne.”

“Your wife? She was here?”

“Yes!” Lestrade scowled and then winced as one of the paramedics inserted an IV line. “Contact Gregson at the Met, he was running a detail for Elena Grigorovich, tell them the situation and get her to safety.”

“Gregson at the Met.” Sally repeated, filing the information away.

“Do it now... and find Anne!”

“We'll find her,” Donovan assured. “Can you tell me what she was wearing?”

Lestrade frowned as confusion washed over him again. “I... I can't remember.”

Sally looked around, alarmed.

“It's the barbiturate.” John said to her then leaned over, “Greg, don't worry for now, you'll recall later.” He nodded at Donovan to step aside as the trolley was moved into the room. “Sally, it'll work itself out of his system. He's lost a lot of blood though, we need to get him to hospital. I'll go with him, but it wouldn't hurt if you came along as well. There's bound to be something on those bandages you can use.”

Sally nodded, her mind beginning to race. “Right, but I have one question I must have an answer for.”

John looked at her, “What's that?”

“How did _he_ know about this?” She nodded towards the hall.

“I met him...” John glanced at his watch and was shocked to see so little time had passed. “about half an hour ago. He had just received a call from Lestrade, apparently telling him this was a B&E and that he was injured.”

“But why would Lestrade call the Freak for this?”

“I'm thinking maybe he miss-dialed his mobile,” John sighed at her derogatory term for Sherlock. “I'm sure,” he said patiently, “That he was probably trying to call 999.”

“Right, Got it.” Donovan nodded, backing out of the way of the paramedics as they began preparing the trolley. She looked up to see other members of Dimmock's team arrive.

*

In the hallway, Dimmock was looking at Sherlock with weary resignation. “I suppose you are going to point me in the right direction?” he asked.

“Finally, someone asked the right question.” Sherlock said, raising his hands in mockery. He turned his piercing gaze on Dimmock. “Keep up--” he said with a malicious smile.

Dimmock's hand dove inside his lapel pocket and pulled out a small notepad and pen.

“Lestrade was stabbed from behind _precisely_ in a spot that would inflict a painful and very bloody flesh wound. It was done with a flick knife with medical precision. He was then injected with a barbiturate, probably sodium thiopental. It's fast acting and was enough to keep him down and out while his wife was drugged in the same manner, packed into a suitcase and hauled up to one of the floors above this flat.”

“Hauled up in a suit-- wait a second!” Dimmock protested.

Sherlock waved a hand at him, scowling at his broken train of thought. “There are deep wheel marks in the carpet at the edge of the sliding door, indicating a large piece of luggage with weight in it. Anne Lestrade is a dancer, she's small and compact, probably weighs a little under eight stone. On the balcony is a piece of cotton wool, probably from the hypodermics used on them, there are fibers on the lower edge of the seventh floor railing from the ropes used to pull the suitcase up out of this flat. There are also tread marks on the railing from at least three different sets of shoes.”

“Check the ground floor security cameras for someone leaving this building pulling a large suitcase with wheels. Those cameras should have it, if not them then there's bound to be something from the street camera. Have someone check the time stamps between 1:45 and 2:00am. In the kitchen there is blood on the worktop, more than likely from one of the assailants whom Lestrade managed to strike. In the lounge there is evidence of at least two men who struck Anne Lestrade, she put up a fight, there's enough hair evidence scattered around even a blind rat could find.”

Sherlock suddenly paused as dawning realization struck him. “Ah...” He breathed. “There is far more to this than meets the eye.”

“What?” Dimmock urged.

Sherlock shook himself, shooting a glare at Dimmock. “This was a surgical strike, one to inflict a lot of pain, and not just in the kidnapping of Lestrade's wife. A lot of planning and preparation. There is far more going on here!” His eyes gained a distracted gleam as his thoughts went inward and he began walking his way through the crowd of EMT's, policemen and a few curious neighbours.

“Sherlock!” Dimmock snapped.

“You've got your work cut out for you for the next few hours. I'll meet you at the Yard later...” Sherlock said over his shoulder as he headed for the lift.

Within moments of the door swishing shut, police and medical personnel were abruptly clearing a path in front of the flat as the trolley appeared in the doorway. John was near the head, holding a IV bag up and helping guide the trolley towards the lift. Sally flanked him as well as the paramedics, still taking vital signs. Lestrade, covered with a blanket, and strapped down, also had a n oxygen mask in place. He was grey with fatigue, the circles under his eyes looking more like bruises.

“Dimmock,” Donovan informed, “He says that his wife was with him tonight, she's missing. You'll need to start a search.”

“His wife?” Dimmock asked, “Aren't they separated?” Donovan didn't reply.

Dimmock shook himself, standing back as the procession moved down the hall. He looked around at the others. “All right folks, this has happened to one of our own, let's get a thorough job done of it and catch these guys. We'll need to get a description of Lestrade's wife,” he focused on a pair of waiting constables. “Both of you begin going door to door, get any information that you can.” He turned then and entered the flat, looking at the notes he had managed to get from Sherlock.

With that, he began issuing further orders, waiting for the forensic team to arrive.

 **End Chapter Two**


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

By the time John managed to stumble up the stairs of 221B Baker Street, the sun had long been up. This time he was determined to make it to his room, but upon entering the flat, the aroma of several chemicals assaulted his nose, jerking him more awake than smelling salts ever could.

He groaned out loud, shoulders sagging in defeat as he entered the lounge. Not even bothering to ascertain where Sherlock was, he aimed straight for the windows and threw one open, turning a murderous look towards the kitchen.

Sherlock sat at the table with his eyes glued to his microscope, minutely adjusting a knob. His shirtsleeves where rolled back and something was bubbling away on a Bunsen burner next to him. “It was just a flesh wound. Wasn't it?” he asked.

John, leaning closer to the window, looked at the opposite wall. His jaw tightened as he gritted his teeth. “Yes, he's damned lucky. Hospital wants to keep him overnight but may just release him. Sherlock, this flat reeks!”

Sherlock raised his head, pausing to sniff experimentally before looking over at John. “Is a bit fuggy isn't it? Not without a good cause though.” He flashed a smile at John and returned his gaze to the microscope.

“What now?” John asked in resignation.

“The barbiturate used on Lestrade, it was sodium thiopental.”

“And you figured that out this fast, how?”

“I knew exactly what to look for.” Sherlock said. “Not commonly used any more, but it is extremely fast acting and disperses fairly quickly in your system. No great shakes there figuring out what it was. Now the question becomes, where was it acquired?”

“No 'why'?” John asked sarcastically as he ran a hand down his face.

“I already know why.” Sherlock stated flatly.

John heaved a sigh. “Well if you're the least bit interested, Lestrade is going to be all right, just sore as hell and angry to boot.”

“Wounded animals are more dangerous...” Sherlock commented dryly.

“And I've invited him to stay here.” John finished. Sherlock looked up in alarm, shooting a horrified glance into the lounge at him.

John flashed a quick smile. “His flat's off limits due to what's happened and I refuse to let him sleep in his office at the Yard. He'll go straight there and never get any rest. So he's coming here.” John stood up from the window and turned toward the fireplace, reaching down beside Sherlock's chair. He rose with Sherlock's violin bow in his hand. “And you won't be using this,” he said and promptly headed upstairs towards his room.

He was back down in seconds, moving to open the other window.

“The Yard can afford to put him up in a hotel, you know...” Sherlock grumbled.

“Just what exactly are you doing in there anyway?” John demanded.

Sherlock sighed, turning his attention back to the microscope. He reached over and picked up a tiny sealed plastic bag, then held it up for John to see.

Entering the kitchen, John took it from him and frowned. “Cotton wool?”

“From the flat. I found traces of alcohol and sodium thiopental on it.” Sherlock murmured.

John closed his eyes wearily, recalling the sight of Sherlock stooped down on the balcony of Lestrade's' flat. “You tampered with evidence.”

“I didn't tamper with it!” Sherlock growled. “I just took some of it. I know exactly what is on it less than twelve hours after the attack occurred. Try getting the forensics department at the Yard to produce results that fast.”

“Only because you knew what to look for...” John said, dropping the plastic bag back on the table and turning to the kettle on the work top behind them.

“Precisely.” Sherlock replied.

Badly in need of tea, John set about making it and added, “Then I'll leave you to explain to Lestrade why you have evidence from his flat here and how you redecorated the wall in the lounge. He's going to love that one.” He looked out at the bullet hole smiley on their wall.

Sherlock's eyes snapped open, then shut tightly as he scowled. “Oh damn!” he grumbled.

*

Lestrade himself caused no small stir later that evening when he showed up at his office.

Looking just this side of death warmed over, he ignored the sudden drop in volume from the people talking and their eyes tracking him as he had emerged from the office of the Chief Inspector. Sinking with a sigh of relief into his own chair, he winced, running a hand gently down his wounded side as he shifted in his chair to get more comfortable.

“Are you out of your mind?” Sally Donovan asked, appearing in his doorway, holding a rucksack in her hands, and an overcoat over one arm. Lestrade looked at her, his eyes baleful, face grey and appearing far older than his forty-five years. “You checked yourself out didn't you?”

“Any word on Anne?” he asked, ignoring her accusation.

“No...” she said. “Can you tell me why you called the Freak and not us?” She asked.

Lestrade looked up at her, pinning her a moment with his intense gaze. “I miss-dialed,” he said flatly, “And you should know that if John Watson hadn't been with Sherlock, things could have gone a lot worse for me.”

“A miss-dial?” she asked him, unable to hide the hint of cynicism in her voice.

“I was a little preoccupied at the time,” Lestrade grit back, his unflinching gaze never wavering at her challenge.

Donovan sighed, shaking her head in disgust as she backed down. She stepped into the office, setting the pack on the floor next to his desk. “Dimmock let me get you some things out of your flat. You know his team is lead on this right?”

“Yes,” he said as she prepared to set the overcoat on top of the pack. He frowned, “Is that from the flat?”

“Yeah, why?” she asked pausing, looking at him.

“Give it to Dimmock.” He said to her. Sally frowned as he looked around his desk. As she straightened he glanced at her, before closing his eyes wearily. “Anne was wearing it last night, she gets cold easily. There might be something on it to help find...” he paused, scowled, then sat back in his chair. “To help find her.”

“Right,” she said turning to leave.

Before she made it to the door he asked, “Did you contact Gregson like I asked?”

“Yes, Elena Grigorovich is at a safe house. There's been no sign of her stalker.”

“Good,” Lestrade replied, “Sally?” he added causing her turn back around. He nodded at the pack on the floor. “Thanks.”

“I got your shaving kit from downstairs too.” She said. Lestrade snorted softly, winced at the twist of pain it caused. He reached up to run a hand across his chin, feeling the stubble, then sat back in his chair, and stared at his desktop. He didn't know how long he sat there until he became aware of another presence in the doorway.

“Greg?”

Looking up he saw Dimmock, arms folded, leaning in against the jamb. He also appeared to have been trying to get his attention for some time.

“Aren't you supposed to be in hospital, or anywhere else, besides here?” Dimmock asked.

“They had no reason to keep me. It was a flesh wound. I just got drained a few pints is all. Have you found out anything about Anne?”

Dimmock shook his head and nodded at one of the seats in Lestrade's office with an eyebrow raised, seeking permission. Lestrade nodded, and sat stiffly forward, scrubbing at his face with both hands.

Dimmock sat down, tugging his notebook out. “I take it the chief has you on medical leave?” he asked.

“What do you think?” Lestrade asked him wearily. His eyes looked dull, almost lifeless, as he looked at the other DI. “I know it's your case. Just don't keep me in the dark about Anne. Has anything been discovered? Any idea of her whereabouts, anything?”

Dimmock hesitated, gazing at Lestrade. “I have questions,” he said carefully, “Things I need to ask you. Routine things.”

Lestrade paused a moment, gauging Dimmock then he reached up and rubbed at the back of his neck, sighing. “Go on.”

“What happened? Last night. I mean I've got Gregson from the Met howling like a banshee about his security detail for Elena Grigorovich. The man came unglued when he heard that Anne was...” he hesitated again. “What was that all about?”

“Grigorovich has a stalker. She and Anne dance for the Royal Ballet. Anne is her understudy, they look very similar. She came to Anne about a fortnight ago showing her some disturbing letters from this stalker. She knows that Anne is married to a policeman.”

“Is?” Dimmock asked, jotting down notes. Hearing no reply he looked up to meet Greg's dark eyes looking at him with annoyance.

“Are.” Greg corrected. “We're still married, despite whatever rumours are flying around this place. Her legal name is Anne Lestrade.”

“Not Leigh-Anne Richardson?” Dimmock asked.

“Stage name, and if you say anything to the press, that is the name you use, are we clear?”

“Clear. Listen, you know I have to ask these things.”

Lestrade sighed, shaking his head, and nodded. “We decided early on that Anne would go by her stage name to protect...” Lestrade stopped, and Dimmock could see a struggle occurring behind the other DI's eyes. “To protect her,” he rasped.

Dimmock hesitated again. “Listen Greg, let's just do this another time. You're knackered. Go to the hotel and get some sleep. I'll keep you in on the loop as much as I can. All right?”

“I'm not going to the hotel.” Lestrade replied. “And let's just get this out of the way now, shall we?”

“Not going to the hotel?” Dimmock asked. Lestrade just looked at him. Sighing, Dimmock shook his head. “So Elena Grigorovich went to Anne about a stalker?”

“Anne told me about it, she asked if there was something I could do. I told her to have Elena get in touch with the Met about it. Anne wanted to do more. She asked me to help out, knowing that she and Elena resemble each other. I told her no. Until Gregson approached me about trying to flush out the stalker by having Anne pose as a decoy. All we had to do was mimic Elena's usual routine, while Gregson's detail escorted her safely home.”

“And nothing's happened?”

“Nothing, no sign of a stalker. Nothing.”

“Can you give me a run down about what happened in your flat?” Dimmock asked. Lestrade sighed and began giving him a precise accounting of what transpired.

“I can tell you I broke someone's nose, have your team check for anyone being treated for that. The last thing I can remember clearly was seeing Anne on the floor, they were putting a mask -like an oxygen mask- over her face.”

“Your friend seems to believe that they bundled her up in your suitcase and hauled her out of the building in it.” Dimmock commented, jotting down notes.

Lestrade looked at Dimmock, his eyes narrowing in speculation. “If Sherlock believes that, you had better take it as gospel.”

“Why did you call him anyway?” Dimmock asked.

“I was trying to dial 999.” Lestrade sighed. “Apparently I hit my speed dial for Sherlock instead.”

Dimmock frowned, waiting. Lestrade smiled ruefully. “Number of the Beast, 666.”

“Ah...” Dimmock breathed, frowning in consternation. “What do you remember next?”

“John Watson was fending me off because I tried to hit him.” Lestrade gave a run down of what he could recall after waking. “The rest you know about, once you got there.”

“We can thank Doctor Watson for that as well. Good head on his shoulders.”

“Army Doctor.” Lestrade commented.

Dimmock nodded and paused. “Greg, why was Anne with you last night?”

“She's my wife.” Lestrade started, barely reining in his irritation.

“But you're separated?”

“What has that got to do with this?” Lestrade asked back. “She was with me, we were going home, we were attacked in _our own home._ ”

“ _Your_ home, she lives in a studio flat.” Dimmock replied. Lestrade didn't reply, but his gaze gained a disturbingly bright intensity as he looked at Dimmock. “Why was she with you last night?”

Lestrade sat back in the chair, saying nothing to the other DI. His jaw clenched before a cold smile appeared on his face.

“Before you go trying to figure out whether or not I had something to do with my wife's disappearance let me set you straight on one thing.” He said in a low voice. “Anne Lestrade is my wife. We're still married. We're trying to make things work. Just because we're not living under the same roof together, doesn't mean that we still don't love each other.”

“But,” Dimmock started.

Lestrade cut him off. “You have a wife, Dimmock. She works what, part time at a creche? But she's usually home when you get back from whatever ungodly hours you've had to work, right?”

Dimmock barely nodded as Lestrade pressed on relentlessly, the irritation in his voice getting sharper.

“Anne works fifteen to eighteen hour days for the Royal Ballet. Her schedule coupled with mine doesn't exactly allow us a lot of time to spend together. There was no sense in her staying in the flat with me, when she'd just be exhausted by the time she caught the trains home. I went with her and signed the paperwork for letting the studio she's living in.”

“Five years ago?” Dimmock asked, “You've been separated at least that long. Plus you don't even wear your ring.”

Lestrade laid his hands flat on the table, looking at his left hand and snorted in disgust. “I've been trying to quit smoking...” he said quietly, “There's a bit of weight loss involved in that. My ring needs to be re-sized. Anne has it until I've completely quit smoking.”

“You seem to have an answer to cover everything.” Dimmock remarked.

“And _you_ are trying to make me the prime suspect in the kidnapping of my own damn wife!” Lestrade snarled back.

“You're the last one to see her alive.” Dimmock sighed, “You know that makes you the first suspect, not to mention the fact you're her husband and that you're separated!”

“And you're already assuming that she'd dead!” Lestrade snapped. “I'd like to see just how you manage to string together what facts you have to make any of this speculation fit your theory. And more importantly, why would I want to have my own wife kidnapped and killed?”

“You do have a hefty life insurance policy on her.”

“Oh for...” Lestrade started, beginning to lever himself up out of his chair. He glared down at Dimmock, “She's a dancer, in a world renowned company, it's practically a job requirement for them to have some sort of insurance in case of...” He closed his eyes, reining in his ire, “situations like this.”

Dimmock flipped his note pad shut. “Greg, you look like hell,” he said flatly. “Between you and I, I know you couldn't have done this. All the same, I have to follow procedure.”

“Oh, we _must_ follow procedure even when you are obviously following the wrong lead.” A low deep voice replied. Startled both men looked up to see Sherlock leaning in the doorway.

“Oh great...” Lestrade groaned, lowering himself slowly back into his chair. “How long have you been standing there?”

“Long enough to know that you're totally out of your league,” he said specifically to Dimmock, who heaved a sigh, looking disgusted as Sherlock entered the office. “You'd serve your time better writing up fairy tales if you think Lestrade could've pulled off kidnapping his wife.”

“Oh gee, thanks.” Lestrade grumbled. He looked at the things on his desk, noticing the stack of post piled there.

“I suppose you've come here to rub our noses in our mess again?” Dimmock asked.

“There's a certain crude analogy that works there, but yes... I am.” Sherlock smiled. “Tell me your forensic team found fibers on the balconies of the seventh and eight floors above Lestrade's flat last night.”

“Why should I?” Dimmock grumbled, “You already knew it.”

“And the surveillance cameras?”

“Still working on getting those.”

“You think Anne was taken out in my suitcase?” Lestrade asked him.

“I don't think,” Sherlock replied arrogantly, “I know.” He looked at Lestrade. “That sedative, it was very fast acting and short-lived. It was enough to keep you down ten to fifteen minutes while she was bundled into the suitcase and hoisted to the eight floor flat.” He turned to look at Dimmock. “There's something you could be doing. Check that place out, though I doubt you'll find much.”

“Before I passed out, they were placing something over Anne's face, an oxygen mask of some sort.” Lestrade said.

Sherlock nodded. “Propofol. It's used in conjunction with sodium thiopental to keep a patient under for a long period of time. It was meant to keep her unconscious and alive until they reached whatever destination they were taking her.”

Lestrade looked at Sherlock appalled.

“And you know this how?” Dimmock demanded.

“Child's play. They attack a senior DI in his home with his wife. That would've taken at least four assailants, probably five in this case.” Sherlock looked at Lestrade. “Three to take you out and two to handle Anne.”

He looked back at Dimmock, “Anne Lestrade is American, raised in the wild west of Montana, she's also Lestrade's wife, meaning she would know how to put up a fight. They come in, take them down and knock both of them out with a fast acting sedative. Long enough to get him out of the way and get her out of the flat unseen. There was a great deal of organization and planning in this. That is something I know he wouldn't have had time to do.” He nodded at Lestrade.

“Nice of you to think so,” Lestrade grumbled trying to process all the information coming at him. He tugged the unopened post towards him.

“Who on earth would do such a thing?” Dimmock asked.

“You can start finding that out by talking to Elena Grigorovich. Chances are that one's had a bit more of a hand in this business then she's willing to admit.” Sherlock said.

“By god, if she's had anything,” Lestrade started.

“Oh, she's had plenty. She made it look as if she was being stalked and needed Anne to be a decoy, but in fact, it was the reverse. Anne was the intended target all along.”

“I knew it,” Lestrade hissed, “I knew there was something there I didn't trust!” He looked up at Sherlock. “But why? What has Anne done to anyone?”

“Anne may have been the intended target for this?” Sherlock began, “but she isn't the intended victim. She's just collateral.”

“If she's not the intended victim, who is?” Dimmock asked.

Sherlock looked levelly at Lestrade. “You are.”

“Me?” Lestrade snapped.

“No, the dog next door. Of course it's you!” Sherlock snapped back.

“Where the hell are you getting that from?” Dimmock demanded.

“There's been no ransom demand yet has there?” Sherlock looked at Dimmock.

“I can't tell you that!” Dimmock protested.

Sherlock heaved a sigh, and waved him off. “It's been almost 24 hours since she was taken and there's been nothing. Don't expect anything either.” He looked at Lestrade. “Your knifing is nothing more that a message. They can get to you anywhere and anyway they like.”

“Then why the hell have they taken Anne?” Lestrade demanded, “Why not just finish the job right there?”

“Because they want you to suffer.”

“But who?” Dimmock asked.

“Well now that's _your_ job isn't it?” Sherlock turned to Dimmock. “To run around asking questions and try to build a case against the wrong suspect?”

“Dammit Sherlock, I am just following departmental procedure!” Dimmock snapped.

“To hell with procedure, you have a solid case of revenge in your lap.” Sherlock snapped back. “He's got a backlog of potential enemies just waiting for your crew to search.” He turned his gaze to Lestrade. “How long have you and Anne been married?”

“What's that got to do with this?” Lestrade demanded.

“How long?” Sherlock snapped.

“Eleven years this May,” Lestrade said, warily watching Sherlock.

“And how many threats have you had made against you in the last eleven years?”

“Are you serious? There's been dozens! If not hundreds.”

Sherlock turned to Dimmock. “There you have it. Start going through his backlog of files and start making a list of all those people who have threatened him. One of them is more than likely to be your suspect.”

“You're serious,” Dimmock groaned. “That's going to take days!”

“You have nine people on your team, Dimmock. Use Sally Donovan as well, since she doesn't have anything very important to do while he sits out on suspension.” Sherlock replied.

Lestrade made to argue, but then rejected it, just shaking his head.

“It's medical leave.” Dimmock corrected.

“When your primary suspect is the husband of the victim and a Detective Inspector for the CID; standard procedure is suspension until he's been cleared. Medical leave is just the window dressing the department puts on it because Lestrade happened to have got stabbed. Nice thing for them to tell the press.” Sherlock replied sarcastically.

“How do you put up with him?” Dimmock asked looking at Lestrade.

Lestrade was gazing at his post, tugging some of the letters off the top, glancing at the names. “Just tell him you know where all his hiding places are in his flat.” Lestrade replied. Sherlock frowned in consternation while Dimmock appeared even more confused.

“My flat is clean!” Sherlock growled. Lestrade just shot a knowing smile at him.

'”You've got your work cut out for you Dimmock,” Lestrade said. “Besides Elena Grigorovich, and that flat above mine, now you've got my case files.” He was beginning to reach for a small padded envelope mixed in with his post when Sherlock caught his wrist.

“Stop...” he warned. Lestrade was about to argue, when he saw the way Sherlock was looking down at his desk.

“What is it?”

“When was that envelope delivered?”

“How should I know? I've been flat on my back in hospital all day.” Greg replied looking curiously at the envelope. Then he frowned. No stamps, no postcode, no markings, only his name. He sensed rather then saw Sherlock looking smugly at him as he slipped his hand into his coat pocket.

“When did the post arrive?” Lestrade asked Dimmock.

“Not sure, I can have someone find out.”

“Do it. Then have them find exactly who delivered it, and find out how much they were paid to slip this into Lestrade's post.” Sherlock replied, unfolding his jackknife.

With the tip he caught the edge of the envelope and tugged it towards him, while he reached across the desk, snagging a nearby pen. Holding the envelope down with the pen he neatly slit an opening in the corner, then pinned the envelope down with the tip of his knife. Using the pen again, he tipped the other end of the envelope up and spilled the contents.

A pair of rings-one a man's solid gold band, the other a much smaller woman's band- held together on a slim gold necklace slid out onto the desktop.

Nobody moved or said a word until Lestrade very slowly sat back down in his chair. He reached up to run his hand over his mouth, looking out into the opposite room.

“Greg,” Dimmock asked. “Is that what I think it is?”

“Yes.” Lestrade said, his voice tight. “They're ours. Anne wears the necklace. She never takes it off.”

“Sentimental,” Sherlock said. Then he looked at Dimmock, “Get an evidence bag, better make it two, besides the rings and the chain, the envelope may have DNA you can use.”

“Right.” Dimmock got up, and left without another word.

Lestrade looked up at Sherlock. “What aren't you telling him?”

“Not here.” Sherlock hissed in reply then jumped when someone rapped on the door with a knuckle.

Both men looked at John, standing in the doorway, just lowering his arm. He had an aggrieved look on his face.

“When did you check yourself out?” he asked Lestrade.

Lestrade sighed and glanced at his watch then frowned, surprised at the time.

“That tells me all I need to know.” John sighed. He looked at Sherlock. “I'm done giving my statement, they want to talk to you now.”

“They can wait.” Sherlock replied, snapping his knife shut and stowing it away.

John stepped into the office, glancing at a washed out Lestrade before he caught sight of the rings on his desk. He looked at Sherlock, then back at Lestrade. “Greg, take my advice please.” He said slowly. “You're going to be absolutely no good to your wife if you are unconscious or dead. You need rest. I'm ready to head to out, you're welcome to ride with me.”

“I-” Greg started to speak but then he just sighed. “Right, you're right.” He gathered himself together, and stood up, feeling every injury that had been inflicted on him within the past 24 hours. “I need to stop downstairs and gather a few things.” He made to reach for his pack but Sherlock grabbed it first, silently passing it to John. Lestrade just smirked at him as he stood up straight, running his hand down his side as he winced. Their eyes locked for a brief moment.

“You'll tell me more?” Lestrade asked him, his voice lowered.

“If you behave,” Sherlock replied. Lestrade only sighed, moving past him towards the door.

“I'll meet you on the ground floor,” John said. Lestrade nodded at him then turned to Sherlock once more.

“You'll be coming as well?”

“Shortly, have a few errands to run.” He evaded. Lestrade just shook his head and followed John out of the office.

He hadn't even made it to the lifts before he was intercepted by Donovan. She laid a hand on his arm, stopping him.

“Sir,” she implored. “You're not calling in the Freak on this are you?”

Lestrade looked down at her hand, then back into her eyes.

“Come on!” She urged. “For all we know this could just be some game he's playing because he's bored!”

“So he takes it out on me and my wife?” Lestrade's gaze fixed on her, cold and hard, his voice lowered.

“You're not going to trust us, are you? You're going to do things your way and make us all look like fools!”

“If it was Anderson in this predicament, what would you do?” Lestrade challenged.

“How's it going to look if you turn to him instead of us to find Anne?” Sally hissed back.

Barely restraining his sarcasm, Lestrade replied, “Maybe it'll look like I'm trying to find her?” He looked back down at her hand still on his arm. “I may be on suspension Donovan,” his eyes fixed intensely on her. “But I am still your boss.” He growled.

Sally scowled, jerking her hand off his arm. She closed her eyes, her jaw clenched as she sorely bit off the remark she wanted to make.

“Are we done here now?” Lestrade growled.

“Sir!” Donovan gritted past her clenched teeth.

“Good.” Lestrade finished, “Now if you really want to help me out? Dimmock is going to need volunteers.”

Donovan, her eyes still shut and grinding her teeth, let out a sigh. She turned on her heel and walked away.

Silence met Lestrade when he stepped onto the lift which John had kept open for him. As the door swished shut, John stood back placidly, hands clasped in front him, idly watching the digital numbers change as they descended floors. Lestrade sighed, reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose, his eyes closed.

“Trouble?” John remarked.

“No.” Lestrade wearily replied. “Donovan's got good priorities, she just has questionable tact.”

John just pursed his lips, lifting his chin in acknowledgement, saying nothing.

“Off the record? She's impulsive and her mouth can get her into trouble. Got incredible instincts though, and can usually judge a situation in a split second.”

“Usually?” John asked. Lestrade heaved another sigh, straightening as the lift slowed for his floor.

“I still can't figure out when she stepped on Sherlock's toes. It's been like trying to untangle a pair of fighting cats ever since. I'll be down momentarily.” He said and exited the lift.

John smothered a smirk, trying not to picture fur flying and poked the button for the ground floor.

 **End Chapter 3**


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

For the first time in a long while, John was able to get through the front door of his flat without encountering some sort of drama inflicted on him by Sherlock. He had Lestrade's rucksack settled over one shoulder while Lestrade himself silently followed after him with a garment bag draped over one arm.

“You can use my room, second floor, first door on the left,” John said pausing by the hall table where several bulky bags were piled, along with their post. “Ah good, Tesco's delivered.” He paused to read a note from Mrs. Hudson explaining that she had put the perishable items in their fridge and reminded him to tell Sherlock to remove his experiments. Lestrade raised a curious eyebrow at John's soft chuckle. He had hardly spoken the entire trip to 221B and John had just let him have his space, knowing only too well how strung out the detective had to be.

“Expecting company, were you?” Lestrade asked wryly, edging past him.

“Yes, so I called ahead.” John smiled, gathering up bags and following Lestrade up the stairs. “Please tell me you got your prescriptions and extra dressings when you checked out of hospital.”

“I may be rash but I am not entirely stupid,” Lestrade responded as he opened the door.

John's momentarily froze, wondering if something hideous was going to greet them but found upon entering that all was quiet, somewhat organized and... he sniffed the air. Bless her soul, Mrs Hudson had been through the place with some sort of air freshener. He wondered for the umpteeth time just how psychic the woman was. The fireplace was even burning at a nice low ebb. Still, intuition was telling him something was a little out of kilter. He glanced around the flat, his lips skewed to one side in thought before shrugging it off.

“Here,” John said piling the groceries on a work surface in the kitchen. He entered the lounge and retrieved the garment bag Lestrade was just laying over one arm of the couch. “I'll take them up, just make yourself at home.” Before Lestrade could even reply, John had taken bag and rucksack and jogged upstairs.

When he came back down, Lestrade was perched on the edge of the couch, his arms draped across his legs and was running one hand through his silver hair, ruffling it up and sighing. John vanished into the kitchen a moment, returning with a bottle of apple juice.

Lestrade looked up at him, a frown on his face as he was silently rubbing the back of one of his legs. “What's this then?” he asked.

“I'll not have you getting hypokalemic on my watch.” John remarked holding out the juice. “Drink it.”

Lestrade just looked at him sceptically.

John sighed, “You've been seriously injured and probably haven't eaten in at least thirty six hours. Your potassium levels are down. That's why your legs are cramping. I noticed it in the cab all the way here.”

Lestrade shook his head, snorting softly in amusement and took the bottle from John. “You've been spending way too much time with Sherlock,” he remarked.

“I'm not entirely stupid myself,” John replied with smirk. “And I'll take that as a compliment.”

“I don't know whether I should be relieved or afraid. Staying with a doctor might be just as bad as staying at hospital,” Lestrade joked.

“I'm no where near as bad as Sherlock,” John shot back as he returned to the kitchen to put things away. “Now drink it.”

“I haven't had apple juice since I was a kid,” Lestrade grumbled, but he downed the bottle anyway. “Any idea where Sherlock might have gone off to?

“None,” John replied dropping bread slices into the toaster. “He could be right behind us or not show up until day after tomorrow for all I know.”

Lestrade groaned, running a hand over his face as he listened to the sounds of John being quite happily domestic in the kitchen. He frowned as he heard eggs being cracked then was surprised at the grumbling in his stomach.

“Tell me about her?” John asked.

Lestrade shook himself, not realizing he'd been drifting in his thoughts. He looked at John leaning in the kitchen partition. “What?” he asked.

“Anne, tell me about her?”

“Oh...” Lestrade stared for a moment into the fireplace. “Well, um, she's a Yank, born and raised in Montana. Near Helena. She's been dancing since she was a toddler. Got hired on with the Royal Ballet in '99. ” Lestrade paused, his thoughts wandering.

“Did you meet on a case?” John asked, turning to look into the kitchen behind him a moment.

Lestrade snorted softly, shaking his head. “No, actually. Met her on the London Eye. Just before it opened to the public. They were giving private rides to local groups before opening and she was on one. Hopelessly fascinated with the city.” A soft smile stole across his lips. “She was trying to pinpoint landmarks on one of those touristy maps they pass out and I was standing nearby. Next thing I know I'm showing her the city. By the time the ride was over I asked her out to lunch. Never thought she'd agree. Next thing we know, we're having a classic December to May romance.”

“And the rest was history?”

Lestrade nodded, running his hand through his hair again. “Seems kind of fast but I just knew she was the right one.” He glanced at John, “I still do, I just never thought I'd meet someone who's schedule is quite possibly worse than mine.”

“Why separate though?” John asked, then he flinched. “Never mind Greg, that was none of my business.”

“It's no big mystery,” Lestrade responded, his nose catching the aroma of food. “Five years ago she advanced to First Soloist. That means she does her regular work and started studying everything the Principal Soloist does, in the event that she has to take her place. By that time we were already having difficulties seeing one another between our jobs. That promotion didn't help. Within a year the strain was taking a toll on both of us so we agreed that she needed to move into a flat closer to the school. I'd see her whenever we got a chance, but it seemed to be getting harder and harder. Then there's the fact that I'm not getting any younger and we still haven't even started a family.”

“A dancer's years are numbered though, aren't they?” John asked from the kitchen. “She wouldn't have much longer to get anywhere?”

“Precisely why I agreed to wait. She's just turned thirty. So there still is time. If we can keep things together that is.”

“Sounds to me like you two are at least trying.”

“Yes, yes we are. Something rare nowadays.” Lestrade paused again, his voice a little wistful. “We still love one another.” He wondered idly about his being so candid and shrugged it off as the stress.

“You mentioned Montana?” John asked.

“Oh yeah, they breed them independent out there. Tough little thing too. She put up a hell of a fight.” Lestrade trailed off, the scenes involuntarily replaying in his head.

John appeared in the doorway again, watching his guest. He was holding a plate in his hand. “We'll find her, Greg. Somehow. Here.” He set the plate on the coffee table before him. Lestrade started to shake his head no.

“You're going to eat it. Just scrambled eggs and toast. Something bland and light. You need to keep your strength up, not only because you have a sizable puncture wound in you, but your Anne is going to need you now more than ever.”

Lestrade just shook his head and found himself reaching for the fork.

“So what attracted you?” John asked. “To Anne, I mean?”

Lestrade looked puzzled at the question, then shrugged. “She's... different,” he said, “In a nice way. Optimistic. Totally unlike most people her generation. You could say she's bit naive and gullible, but really? It's rare to find someone nowadays who seems to be able to see the good in every one and everything around you. From my perspective it's refreshing and frustrating at the same time.”

John smirked, nodding his head in agreement. He could easily see why a jaded DI would think that.

“She even found something nice to say about Sherlock, which was going some, even for her.” Lestrade remarked, surprised at how famished he really was as he tucked into the food. “Still. I've had a time trying to show her when not to be too trusting, just trying to prot...” Lestrade paused, staring at the plate a moment. “To protect her,” he grated out. “I bloody cocked it up there, didn't I?”

“You were outmatched, Greg. If Sherlock is right -well we know he's usually right- this was a precisely planned attack. You didn't stand a chance. No sense beating yourself up. It won't do you, or her for that matter, any good.”

“You're right.” Lestrade sighed.

“Of course he's right, for once,” Sherlock replied from the doorway, tugging his scarf off of his neck.  
Hanging that and his coat up he entered the flat, aiming straight for his chair. Neither had even heard him enter the building.

“For god's sake Sherlock, have you found out anything? Anything at all?” Lestrade asked, setting the empty plate back down.

“Some,” Sherlock dropped into his chair, seeming relieved to be home and soaking in the heat from the fire. “Hopefully more later.”

“What weren't you telling me at the Yard?” Lestrade pressed. Sherlock glanced over at him, rubbing his fingers tips together idly.

“You really were outmatched, so save your guilt for later.” Sherlock replied. “I can tell you that there was a lot of money involved in this for it to go off so well. They knew the exact layout of your flat, your alarm system, and the building for that matter. Also whoever is behind it must be a doctor or someone who has an extensive knowledge of human anatomy, maybe a mortician or a coroner, either one, he's a medical professional. The man who knifed you knew _precisely_ where to stab you to inflict the most pain and blood loss, but not cause serious damage. Then he bandaged your wound to ensure that you stayed alive.”

“But why?” Lestrade demanded. “Why do all this and take my wife?”

“As I said earlier, they want you to suffer.”

Lestrade could only look at him in disbelief. Sherlock settled back, his eyes getting distant as he tapped his index fingers against his chin.

“Someone in your past has a decided grudge against you. Enough to want to seek revenge.” Sherlock's gaze focused on John, who was leaning in the partition again. A wry smile curled his lips. “You once told me people don't have arch enemies. First night we met, on that 'Pink' case.” Sherlock barely hid his sarcasm at John's choice of title for the first case they actually worked on together.

“Yes I did,” John affirmed, turning to the kitchen as the kettle began to boil. “Especially after encountering your brother for the first time.”

“You haven't considered Lestrade's record of case closures leading to the arrest and imprisonment of the subjects involve,” Sherlock said.

John, tinkering in the kitchen replied. “No I hadn't, but you're probably right.”

“Probably?” Sherlock retorted, then purred, “I know I'm right.” He looked at Lestrade. “The question then becomes, who in your considerable backlog was a medical professional with a serious grudge?”

Lestrade's eyebrow knit together in a frown as he began to think. “There must be at least a dozen. I've worked for the Yard nearly twenty seven years now.”

“A dozen is easier to work with than hundreds.” Sherlock remarked.

“Then why not tell Dimmock that?”

“You want my help finding your wife?” Sherlock asked.

Lestrade closed his eyes wearily. “Of course I want your help, I'll even beg you if you need me to. You don't have all the official crap I have to endure to make any headway.”

“Then I need to keep Dimmock busy and preoccupied in order to move faster, and with your suspension for the time being, _you_ are unfettered from the procedures that so plague your job.” Sherlock responded.

Lestrade looked thoughtful a moment, letting Sherlock's words sink in.

“Think back on those dozen or so doctors and tell me which ones have served their time and have been released.”

“I've been trying to do just that, but nothings making sense.” Lestrade grumbled.

“You're trying to work on mostly empty stomach, just out of hospital, after being stabbed.” John said, setting down two mugs of tea before the men then retreating to claim his own.

“Thus sayeth the doctor,” Sherlock cracked, curling his finger around the cup's handle and breathing in the aroma.

“Is he always this domestic?” Lestrade asked. Sherlock only smirked.

“Someone has to be,” John replied from the kitchen. “Especially in your case.” He looked pointedly at Lestrade as he re-entered the lounge and settled into his own chair. “I'm amazed your even thinking straight now,” he said dryly, sipping his tea.

“And he's only recently started coming around,” Sherlock sighed wistfully.

Lestrade shot him an aggrieved look and slowly, stiffly, sat back against the couch. He couldn't help the small groans of pain that escaped him. John kept a weather eye in his direction, as Lestrade let out a deep sigh of relief.

“Well, there's Simon Laurelhurst,” Lestrade said. “Arrested him back in the mid 90's. He ran a small clinic in Cricklewood; a serial rapist, though you couldn't tell by the looks of him. He maintains he was innocent to this day. DNA and blood evidence proved him wrong. He was given a fourteen year sentence and could be out by now.”

Sitting back into the cushions, he looked at the pillow, and started propping it against the arm rest. “Can't forget Dennis Byron either. He was studying to be a nurse and strangled six women during a three month stretch in 2001.”

“Byron...” John mused, thinking hard. “The Islington Strangler?”

“That's what the Daily Mail called him. I don't think he's going to be let out for another few years, though. There's also Sinclair Weston. Cold as they come. Highly respected doctor with a string of suspicious deaths. Only thing we had on him was circumstantial evidence and nothing could stick. We did find out he was beating his wife. When he found out she was talking to the police, he beat her so bad she was invalided. After his incarceration, there were no more suspicious deaths.”

With a groan, Lestrade slowly twisted, lying back as he adjusted the pillow under his head, heaving another sigh as he lifted his legs up and settled on the couch. “Then there's Adam Berswick, male nurse, despised the elderly patients in his ward and when opportunity arose he'd slip them a lethal dose. Got caught by a doctor and fought like hell when he was arrested. Threatened to kill everybody.”

He laid his arm across his eyes. “There's more. Just can't think of them all right now. Could have Donovan check for me.”

“And we'd never get anywhere if she were to become involved in this,” Sherlock remarked dryly. “There are other ways to find out what we need.”

“You always seem to have a grasp on what kind of person would do such a thing. What have you come up with so far?” John asked.

“Seem to have?” Sherlock asked, looking at him.

John shot a disparaging look his way. “Maybe it will jog something in your memory, Greg?” he asked.

“Certainly wouldn't hurt.” Lestrade murmured.

Sherlock just rolled his eyes, resting his index fingers against his chin. “Besides the obvious facts, this man is older, due to the dated knowledge of the sedative. Sodium thiopenthal hasn't been used very often in human surgeries for ten years or more, but the propofol has. That tells me he's been out of touch, undoubtedly in prison. He'd not know about the standard use of propofol now, plus in prison he'd have literally years to think out and plan the perfect revenge.”

“To pull off what he did?” Lestrade asked ironically, running his hand subconsciously along his wounded side.

“Ah, yes, how did that come about so wonderfully easy?” Sherlock jibed. “Besides money, there was planning, _meticulous_ planning. The flat, the alarms, the building... he also knew that Anne is small. Small enough to fit into a large suitcase, suitably subdued. He had access to money, resources, everything needed to pull off a perfect revenge. He is intelligent, amoral, calculating and very patient. He's nursing a passionate hatred and a need to exact the most ruthless revenge he can think of. He's cruel, and can stay calm and focused under duress, another attribute of a doctor.” Sherlock shot a wry look John's way.

“He'll contact you, when he deems the time is right, and he'll try to do to you everything he thinks you have done to him. Starting with Anne.” Sherlock paused, frowning a little in thought. “It will escalate until he believes he has you where he wants and then he will either kill you, or drive you mad. So what you need to do now, Lestrade is _think!_ Use the facts I just gave you and _think._ Who would want to do this?

“Sherlock,” John's voice had a mild note of warning in it. Sherlock shook himself, blinked and frowned, looking at John. John was glancing down at his watch as he nodded towards their couch.

Looking that way, Sherlock couldn't help but notice the slow, even breathing of the man who lay there. Realizing that Lestrade was sound asleep. He looked aggravated until John remarked.

“Fifty three minutes exactly.” There was a touch of triumph in his voice.

Sherlock looked at him, utterly confused.

There was a mischievous glint in John's eyes as he glanced at Sherlock. “We used to run bets at the base how long it would take a patient in recovery to fall asleep when we'd get food into them. Took me fifty three minutes to get him out.”

Sherlock heaved a sigh, barely refraining from rolling his eyes as he levered himself up out of the chair.  
“Do try and remember everything I just said and bring him up to date.”

John frowned, looking at his flatmate as he headed for the hallway. He glanced at his watch. “It's nearly half three in the morning, where are you going this time of the night?”

“To collect on some debts owed to me. Time is critical, if this man is as ruthless as I believe he is?” Sherlock looped his scarf, dropped it around his neck and threaded the ends through the loop. “I fear for Anne Lestrade's life. Finding her really is vital, especially if we are to find her all in one piece.”

“You don't mean...” John was looking at Sherlock horrified, starting to shake his head in denial.

Shrugging into his coat, Sherlock replied, “I mean everything I say. There is no telling what this kind of man could do to her. He's already proven how good he is at badly injuring someone, yet keeping him alive. Just think what he could do to a captive -especially when he can do it _at leisure_ \- to inflict pain and madness on someone who is helpless to do anything about it. The sooner we find her, the sooner we stop this.”

“Then what can I do?” John instantly responded.

Sherlock just smirked. “There'll be plenty of things for you to do later, but for now...” Sherlock glanced back into the room. “Just keep doing what you're doing. I shouldn't be long. Then the real work begins.” Without another word, he headed downstairs.

John sighed, turning back into the sitting room, a worried frown on his face. Pondering on the grim details Sherlock had supplied, he approached the couch. He reached for the blanket lying across the back, his eyes idly scanning the skull poster that adorned their wall. Lestrade let out a soft moan as John draped the blanket across him, but he didn't surface from sleep. John turned to pick up the leftover dishes from the coffee table and was making his way towards the kitchen when his head suddenly jerked back around to stare at the skull poster on their wall.

His jaw went slack as he gaped in astonishment.

At some point Sherlock had shifted the poster from the right side of the wall to the left, deftly covering his bullet hole smiley.

 **End Chapter 4**


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

John awoke late that morning, feeling worn out and a bit puzzled at the aroma of food wafting up from downstairs. He rolled out of bed with a groan, wondering if he were still dreaming and trudged his way to the bathroom. More awake when he emerged, he realized that there was something delicious being cooked and with a frown he made his way downstairs. His confusion grew at the sight of the coffee table, where a jumble of items was spread out, and at the empty couch.

Turning the corner to the kitchen he found Lestrade standing at the cooker. He looked rumpled, not surprising having slept in his clothes, but his hair was ruffled even more and the fatigue seemed like it had become a permanent mantle. He deftly handled a small frying pan on the hob, swirling a bit of butter to coat the surface. John stared a moment, taking in the fact that his guest had set about making an omelette, the evidence being the small mounds of onion, mushrooms, ham and cheese on a cutting board along with a bowl of whipped eggs. Steam was wafting up from the kettle on the work surface, and the strange cafetiere sitting next to it.

“Morning,” Lestrade greeted. “Hope you don't mind me raiding the fridge?” He glanced at John.

“Mind?” John said, “Not at all. Where did that come from?” He nodded at the cafetiere, also noticing a bag of fresh ground coffee he knew wasn't theirs.

“Donovan stopped by earlier, brought it from the office. Hungry?”

“Famished. You cook?”

“Of course I cook,” Lestrade replied mildly and glanced at him again, seeing him eyeing the coffee. “Cuppa?”

“Love some,” John said shaking himself as Lestrade reached for the bowl of eggs.

“Kettles on.” Lestrade nodded, setting about making the omelette. “Or you can try some of mine, I'll warn you, I like it strong.”

“Thanks.” John murmured, reaching for a cup and a jar of instant coffee. “Didn't realize you were a coffee drinker.”

“Wasn't until I met Anne. I can blame this on her, she got that for me a few years ago.” Lestrade nodded at the cafetiere. “Then she began to insist on fresh coffee beans... I haven't been the same since.”

“Thought it was one of Sherlock's flasks for a minute,” John joked.

“His preoccupations do have a way of invading your kitchen don't they?” Lestrade glanced at the table behind him, which looked as though a macabre lab experiment had gone rogue.

“If you only knew,” John replied, pulling some plates out of their rack. “Somehow, Greg I just can't picture you being a cook.”

“Had to feed myself somehow. Was single for nearly twenty years.” Lestrade replied, adding some of the ingredients to the omelette pan. “No one else around to cook. Didn't change when I married.” He said with a wry smile. “Anne can barely boil eggs.”

John smirked a little at the odd juxtaposition of roles. “Any word?” he asked.

Lestrade shook his head as he carefully wielded a spatula to form the omelette. “Nothing. No more surprises at the Yard either.”

John could see the worry and fatigue etching themselves across Lestrade's face. “Did you get any sleep?” he asked, reaching into the fridge for milk.

“Some. Few hours anyway. Wouldn't mind using the shower in a bit though?” Lestrade stroked his chin, feeling the stubble there.

“So long as we have some waterproof plaster for that wound. Can't let it get wet. How are you feeling, anyway?”

“Like I've been kicked by a elephant.” Lestrade slid the omelette onto a waiting plate and prepared to make another. He nudged the plate towards John.

“Your appetite seems to be in top form, that's a good sign. Thanks.” John pulled the plate towards him.

“Learned a long time ago that just because I'm under stress, doesn't mean I can go without eating. I would, however, kill for a cigarette,” Lestrade remarked.

“Ah!” John brightened, abruptly turning from the kitchen. “I think I can help there.” He headed over to Sherlock's chair, rummaging amongst the clutter on the table next to it and emerged with a small thin box.

“Nicotine patches,” John announced, holding the box up. Glancing at the coffee table again, he realized that at some point Lestrade had somehow retrieved his rucksack from John's room. He frowned, wondering if he really had slept so soundly that he never heard him enter, then he turned and looked over the assortment of medical supplies the hospital had sent Lestrade home with.

“That's right, Himself is trying to quit smoking as well, should have remembered that.” Lestrade said from the kitchen. “Speaking of, when does he usually emerge?”

“I don't even think he's here. He left right after you fell asleep. Yes, they sent you some waterproof plasters. We'll tend to that wound after breakfast.”

“Not here?” Lestrade frowned a moment.

“He keeps ungodly hours.” John remarked. He froze when he saw several small, slim leather wallets mixed in with the items from the hospital. He was about to say something when Lestrade beat him to it.

“Yes, I know where he stashes my warrant cards. That drawer just under that end table. He's made off with the current one - _again_ \- so I was looking for the last one he nicked.” He said it with a weary, resigned patience.

John caught himself gaping again, as he looked at Lestrade still calmly going about making his omelette. He snapped his mouth shut and returned to the kitchen to retrieve his food and coffee. “For someone who once said that he barely knew him even after five years, you know Sherlock remarkably well.”

“I know criminal habits remarkably well.” Lestrade corrected gently. “Getting to know him is nearly impossible. He may make us all look like fools being as fast as he is but I didn't get to where I am now being incompetent.” He poured himself a mug of coffee and followed John to the small table in the sitting room. “Mind filling me in on what he said last night?”

John gave him the details while they ate. Lestrade ended up sitting back in the chair, long legs stretched out past the table, thinking hard.

“My money says Berswick is our man if he's out of prison. They did give him rather a stiffer sentence than normal,” he murmured, “There's also Reginald Foster. Responsible for a series of fatal stabbings near Ealing. That man knew how to handle a knife. Damn, I wish he'd get back here, I hate this waiting.”

“He'll have something, he indicated as much last night,” John reassured, rising from the table and gathering dishes. “Come on in here and let me change that dressing, then you can shower, and take some of those painkillers. Maybe Sherlock will be back by the time you come back down.”

He proved right. Lestrade emerged later, wet haired and freshly shaved, slowly pushing one sleeve of his shirt up past his elbow. He could hear Sherlock talking to Mrs. Hudson before he bounded up the stairs, meeting him in the hall. He seemed to be bristling with a pent up energy.

Lestrade lifted his chin, meeting Sherlock eye to eye. “Anything?” he asked.

“What do you think?”

“Spill,” Lestrade growled.

With a capricious smirk at Lestrade, Sherlock pulled out a CD in a paper sleeve. “Brace yourself.” He murmured and turned for the sitting room.

Following him, Lestrade saw with some amusement that John had cleared the coffee table of all his ID cards. Sherlock was hunting up his laptop before setting it up on the small table. He sat down, flipped it open then started it. John instantly joined them.

“This is camera footage from just inside the building your flat is in,” he said, popping the CD drive open. Inserting the disc he nudged it shut then his fingers flew over the keyboard calling up the programs needed. Within seconds footage was rolling showing the front entry doors of Lestrade's building. “It'll start with the two of you entering the building.”

Seconds later, Lestrade watched himself appear at the door way, pulling it open and letting Anne walk in ahead of him. He was struck at how relaxed he looked. Anne, who barely hit 5'1”, looked ludicrously small engulfed in his overcoat. He could just make out her speaking to him as they entered the building then disappeared from view as they walked out of the camera's range. Reflexively Lestrade looked at the time stamp, seeing it was a few minutes before 2 am.

“Where'd you get this?” Lestrade asked sharply.

“Never mind where I got it, or for that matter, how I got it. The important thing is that I've got it,” Sherlock retorted. He waved a hand at the screen. “Now watch,” he murmured, fast-forwarding through the footage until it reached just past the hour.

He allowed the film to continue at normal speed. Only the door showed, no movement, no sounds, nothing at all. Lestrade glanced at the time stamp again then bristled at the sight of an unknown man, approaching the door from inside the building, pulling on a large wheeled suitcase. Reaching the door, he held it open with his hip and proceeded to leave the building towing the suitcase behind him. The time stamp read seven minutes past two.

“Did you see it? Your wife was in that suitcase,” Sherlock stated flatly.

“Run it again.” Lestrade ordered, running a hand down his face as he continued leaning over Sherlock's shoulder.

The footage ran. The man, average height, dark haired, approached the door and exited pulling the suitcase behind him.

“Did you see it?” Sherlock demanded, twisting around to look at Lestrade.

“Run it again...” Lestrade said tightly, his jaw muscles taut with tension.

“Did you _see_ it?”

“See what? Some one who broke into my flat and left with my wife, _packed in a suitcase_ , like someone's laundry? Leaving the building less than ten minutes after attacking us?” Lestrade snapped. “What the hell else am I supposed to be looking at?”

“Open your eyes, Lestrade! _Watch._ ” Sherlock growled back, reversing the footage and rolling it again. “And _he_ never entered your flat,” he added with disdain.

Desperately wanting to know how Sherlock could possibly know that, Lestrade bit off the desire to question and forced his attention to stay focused on the computer. It was the same thing. Lestrade watched the scenes intently. His professional detachment warred with his personal desire to reach out and throttle whoever it could be who would do such a thing to a woman, especially his wife.

“Well?” Sherlock demanded again, as the footage ended again.

“What the hell am I looking for?” Lestrade seethed, trying to reign in his frustration and a desire to also strangle the man in front of him.

“Are you _really_ that blind?” Sherlock wondered, sharply condescending.

“So help me god, Sherlock if you don't...” Lestrade began before John interrupted them both.

“Girls!” he snapped, looking at both of them in admonishment. He could feel the tension radiating from Lestrade. “We'll get nowhere arguing. _I_ can't even figure out what to look at, Sherlock. Tell us. Better yet, show us.”

Sherlock sighed in frustration, turning towards his computer and rewinding the footage. Lestrade, for the life of him, still couldn't figure how John could so adroitly manipulate Sherlock into such easy compliance.

“Here, I'll even slow it down for you,” Sherlock said dripping sarcasm. The film ran for the fourth time. Much slower now they watched the man approach the door, pulling the case. He opened it, tugged the suitcase through the door, and set off again.

“Did you _get it_ this time?” he asked dryly.

Lestrade straightened, biting down hard on a nasty retort and rubbed at the back of his neck.

John sighed, shaking his head. “He approached the door, tugged the suitcase through and leaves. How does that prove Anne is in it?”

“Watch,” Sherlock said rewinding. With a barely contained impatience he ran the footage. “See here, where he holds the door open? See that hard pull? There's weight in that suitcase. He has to tug on the case to get it up over the doorway. This man, he's five foot nine. Judging between his height and the amount of force he used to tug that case, the weight in it is seven and a half stone. How much does Anne weigh again?” He looked knowingly at Lestrade.

“Seven and half stone...” he said tightly, reaching over to rewind the footage and watch it again. He could see it now, even at regular speed, a blink and you'd miss it moment where the man briefly tugged hard on the handle of the case to get it past the door. Lestrade swallowed hard, shaking his head, reaching over to rewind it again.

Sherlock smacked his hand away. “I'm not done,” he said.

He rewound the footage to show the door just seconds before the man appeared on camera. “He wasn't worried about disguising himself. Which works in our favour.” He stopped the footage at one spot, clicked on a selection tool and formed a large oval on the doorway.

“He left his reflection on the glass.” Sherlock purred, as he reopened the file and selected a picture. On the screen a larger image appeared, the reflection blown up several times over revealing a murky impression of the man approaching the door. Sherlock hovered the cursor over another picture and paused, looking askance at Lestrade. “Had a friend enlarge the image and sharpen it...” he clicked the picture.

The man pulling the suitcase came into sudden sharp focus, vividly detailed, lugging the suitcase toward the door of building. “Recognize him, by any chance?” Sherlock asked smugly.

Lestrade stared at a sallow-faced younger man, who couldn't have been more than twenty five, sporting a short spiky haircut, a piercing though his lower lip and a look of nervous anxiety.

“No,” Lestrade said slowly, his many years of training automatically filing the person's image away in his head. He'd never forget his face ever again. “What do you make of him?”

“Crack addict. Hasn't slept properly in days if those dark circles under his eyes saying anything.” He paused and looked at Lestrade. “Sort of what you look like right now.”

Lestrade smirked at Sherlock's smug assessment of his current state. “Do you mind?” he nodded at the laptop.

Sherlock snorted in amusement, turning back to the computer. “Now look, really _look,_ ” Sherlock pointed at the screen. “You've seen and dealt with enough of them.” He admonished. “Glassy eyes and his pupils are dilated. Lips are dry and cracked. You can see him blinking and looking around in the video, denoting paranoia. He also has no clue what is in the suitcase. He was just hired to take it away. Even though he's anxious, he'd be five times worse if he knew there was a person in that suitcase. As it stands, he's just your average addict, hired to do an extremely simple job and looking forward to his next hit. Now what we need to do is find him and find where he took the suitcase.”

“Right...” Lestrade straightened, searching around for his coat. “Where's my mobile, if we can get a few copies of that picture made...” he started.

“Don't bother,” Sherlock told him smugly. “My network is far faster.”

“What's that?” Lestrade looked at him.

“I'm already several steps ahead of you. We should have a name shortly and even better, a location. Then we can go hunting. Besides, the Met will just take their time -despite this being one of their own-and time is something we don't have a lot of.” Sherlock tapped the keys on the computer, shutting it down and closed it as he rose from the chair.

Lestrade looked at him in consternation.

“Trust him on this, Gre,.” John said.

“Do I have much of a choice?” Lestrade asked turning towards John. “God only knows what Anne is going through.” He reached up to run a hand across his mouth, looking distractedly out the window.

Sherlock dropped into his chair, and was about to reach for his nicotine patches when John plucked the box off the table. Sherlock looked at him, perplexed. Silently, John tugged one out and passed it to Lestrade, tapping his arm with it to get his attention.

Lestrade shook himself, looked at the patch, and took it. “Thanks,” he murmured.

John gave him a flash of an understanding smile then he reached in and pulled out another one. He held it out to Sherlock, who looked about to protest.

“Don't.” John said flatly setting the patch on the table when Sherlock refused to take it. He then turned on his heel and disappeared upstairs, taking the box of nicotine patches with him.

Sitting back in his chair with a sigh and a pout, Sherlock snagged up the patch and began rolling up his sleeve as Lestrade was rolling his back down. “He could absolutely give your wife lessons,” he said waspishly.

“What I want to know is what else of yours is stashed up there in his room?” Lestrade asked, buttoning his cuff. His feral smile flashed briefly on his face at the look of alarm appearing on Sherlock's features.

John returned a moment later, slower this time as he tugged his old faded grey jumper on over his shirt.  
He had barely set foot in the room when a commotion down stairs brought Sherlock to his feet with a satisfied exclamation. Mrs Hudson could be heard speaking sharply with someone at their doorway. He brushed past John, hurrying down the stairs, leaving John to look at his retreating figure with consternation.

He was back up in seconds, grabbing for his coat. “Got a name and destination.” He said triumphantly, bristling with pent up energy. “Eldon Tewes. Surrey Square Park.”

“Surrey Square...” Lestrade started then groaned as he automatically reached for his suit coat.

“Isn't that near...?” John began meeting Lestrade's nod of affirmation as he gingerly shrugged his jacket on.

“Essendon estates.”

“One of the worst places in the city.” Sherlock seemed positively delighted as John handed Lestrade his spare overcoat then reached for his own jacket. “Place's so bad, the Met won't even show up unless they're in pairs, of cars that is.”

“Bad enough that paramedic and fire services are reluctant to go there. The sooner those places are either renovated or removed, the better.” Lestrade grumbled. “You're certain this guy is there?”

“Not afraid of Essendon, are you?” Sherlock tugged his scarf into place.

Lestrade tilted his head back, looking directly into Sherlock's eyes. “I've probably been there as often as you have.” His feral smile played on his lips as a spark of challenge lit his dark eyes.

That brought a surprise chuckle out of Sherlock as he jogged back down the stairs, followed by the other two.

Every city had its examples of urban decay. Of good intentions gone horribly wrong. Areas that had gained their own notoriety. London wasn't exempt. The Essendon estates started out as a a typical sixties attempt to pull down the old slums and replace them with modern flats to help house some of the poorest families in south-east London. Even when it was built the press had described it as a series of drab impregnable concrete blocks accessed via dank passageways and tight stairwells that provided a refuge for addicts and muggers. The passage of time had only made things worse, despite a much vaunted, multi-billion pound redevelopment scheme set up by the council a few years earlier. Crime was commonplace, robberies, stabbings, rapes, and vandalism. Rival gangs warred for territory, drug use was rampant, and the dealing blatant. Many of the residents were intimidated into silence and/or cooperation, scared to leave their homes except when absolutely necessary, and almost never at night.

It was no laughing matter to the various emergency services. Police only ever went in pairs, and never on foot, and it was really your unlucky night if you were the paramedic or fire crew on duty when a 999 call came in from the estates. Essendon had come to represent a hell on earth for the people who were unfortunate enough to live there. For once, nobody much disagreed when the Daily Mail called it “Hell’s waiting room.”

The local parks were hangouts for the youths, looking either for their next hit, any reason -real or imagined- to start something up with a rival gang or harassing some unfortunate victim. Someone who was either to be intimidated into compliance or beaten for disobedience for daring to cross the line. Despite Britain's strict controls, guns were present and there was so much knife crime and anti-social behaviour that the police had virtually given up recording any but the most serious incidents any more. Which didn’t do much for the accuracy of www.police.uk

The late afternoon was bright and cold and several young adults and teens were clustered together, trying to look cool in their baggy pants and hoodies despite huddling into them for warmth. A few had a football in motion, idly kicking the ball around and exerting a little effort to keep warm. Others looked sufficiently miserable as they smoked and all tried to ignore the fact that it was below freezing outside.

Sherlock, Lestrade and John walked quietly towards the cluster of youths, having been dropped off by taxi on the Old Kent Road. No one spoke. Lestrade had his shoulders hunched against the cold and the persistent deep ache in his wounded side. He subconsciously kept his arm tucked in and was noticeably slower than the other two. John dropped back beside him, letting Sherlock take the lead, carefully maintaining a neutral expression while his eyes scanned everything. He knew Lestrade was watching everything around them as well.

“Please tell me he's not going to do what I think he's going to do?” Lestrade murmured under his breath as he dropped his hands to his sides. No sense setting the crowd off thinking that they all carried some sort of weapon in their pockets.

Completely disregarding any notion of personal safety, Sherlock skirted around the group playing footie and walked straight towards the group of smokers. Lestrade, with his jaw clenched, spotted Eldon Tewes the same time as Sherlock. Without a word he and John walked around the opposite side of the players, coming upon the others from another angle. John could feel the tension beginning to emanate from Lestrade.

By now, all the group had noticed them approach and were making various comments -ribald and otherwise- at and about them. Sherlock was hard to miss, his long overcoat, upturned collar and height made him stand out in pretty much any crowd and he certainly stood out even more in this one. His hands had been stuffed in his pockets, and as he neared the smokers, he withdrew his left hand, making a curious gesture. Instantly he was met with two of the crowd approaching him aggressively, flashing their hands down and out like old time wild west gunslingers going for their pistols. With their chins raised in defiance they demanded to know who he was and what did he think he was doing there in their territory?

“Just need some information,” Sherlock said, watching the group with an air of amusement about him.

“Information about what?” One of the boys demanded.

“Any thing we might have is going to cost you,” replied another.

The comments quickly degenerated downhill from there with offers to hook him up with prostitutes, of either gender, help him score some sort of drug or weapon, and finally to asking whether or not he'd been in their area before, several of the kids thinking they had seen him there in the past. It all washed over Sherlock with no apparent effect as he kept his eyes on Tewes.

“What the hell are you staring at?” Tewes demanded, looking around nervously at the three men. He sniffed hard, running his sleeve under his nose. Anxiety kept him shifting his weight from one foot to the other as he looked Sherlock in the eyes challengingly.

“Just looking at another fine example of British youth...” Sherlock murmured.

“Think you're some sort of smart guy?” Tewes shot back, “Wasn't very smart walking in here.” Tewes comments were met with affirmation by several of the others. The football game had ended and the crowd had begun to form a loose circle around them.

Lestrade sighed, both in disgust and resignation, and slowly reached into his inner coat pocket, keeping an eye on all around him as he withdrew his ID. “We just want to talk, gents,” he said firmly, holding his warrant card up. “There's nothing going on.” Sherlock sighed, shaking his head.

“Yeah? And what's that, some sort of secret pass? Yer off your nut to be a copper in here by yourself!” One of the kids joked, eliciting laughter.

“Who said I'm by myself?” Lestrade replied, his smile resembling the bared teeth of predator. “We're just looking for some information, like the man said.” He nodded at Sherlock.

“How much you willing to pay for it, eh?” Tewes demanded, the ball piercing in his lower lip began to move about as he tongued it nervously.

“Oh, about the same amount as you were paid for taking a suitcase from a building at Lurline Gardens the other night,” Sherlock said, watching the nervously blinking Tewes carefully.

His word bomb couldn't have had a better reaction.

Before their eyes, what little colour Tewes had in his face vanished. “Shit!” He exclaimed loudly, alarming the others at the tone on his voice. Without a second blink, he took off running causing the entire group to scatter like rats on a sinking ship.

 **End Chapter 5**


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

“Dammit!” Lestrade swore as kids scrambled in every direction. With his eyes only on Tewes, he set off after him. Sherlock instantly began running in an entirely different direction leaving John looking for a split second between them in confusion before he started off after Sherlock.

For the next several minutes, Lestrade, grim faced and desperately trying to ignore the pain in his side, followed hard after the fleeing Tewes who was running through a veritable rabbit warren of streets and dingy alleys leading deep into the heart of the estates. Tewes was doing everything he could to keep ahead of Lestrade, shoving wheelie bins, and anything else he could lay his hands on behind him in an effort to slow him down. Tewes really didn't need to try so hard. Lestrade knew he wasn't going to catch up with him.

His frustration at the fact grew even worse when Tewes hooked a sharp left down a rubbish strewn alley ending in a chain link fence. The fleeing addict was up and over the barricade in a flash. He landed on the other side, turning to see Lestrade coming to a stop at the fence. Lestrade was panting hard, arm tucked against his side, and glared at the futility of the situation in front of him. Barking out a derisive laugh Tewes gave him the finger and just kept on running.

Lestrade gripped the fence in one hand as he gasped for breath, feeling his knees weaken, the pain was reaching an intolerable level. He was already a target in this place, he'd be damned if he was going to collapse and be a sitting one.

As he stood there, his mobile beeped to an incoming text. Frowning, he tried to straighten up, groaning out loud when he couldn't while fumbling into his pocket and pulling his mobile out.

'Ivy Church Lane,' read the text. 'Off Kinglake, to your left. Try and not let him run you over.'

Lestrade let out another groan, as he doubled over, his hands on his knees. Shaking his head, he pushed off the fence and stumbled towards the main road. Sure enough, he was on Kinglake Street. Turning left, he spotted John coming up the road from the other direction trying to read his own mobile as he jogged.

He looked up in confusion, seeing Lestrade, then glanced up to read a nearby road sign. Meeting up John frowned in dismay at Lestrade, but said nothing as they both starting walking rapidly down Ivy Church Lane. Within a matter of moments, they could hear someone running and Eldon Tewes emerged from a side street, running towards them. He was looking over his shoulder and didn't see either man.

When he did look up, he nearly slid to a stop, looking around desperately as Sherlock nonchalantly strode out of the side street, tucking away his mobile and effectively blocking his path.

Tewes ran his sleeve under his nose again, gasping for breath as he looked from Sherlock to the other two and back, realizing he was caught. His hand was in his pocket in a flash and the flick knife was out, its audible 'snick' being heard by all three men. He went after the one person he thought was the weakest. The smallest of them. He went after John.

John was several feet ahead of Lestrade when Tewes struck. He reached out to grab John by the lapel, but John was moving as well, letting Tewes actually get a hand on his jacket. Reaching across with his right hand, John grabbed the man's thumb, pulling his hand away and twisting it while he sidestepped neatly to the right. With his left hand, John deftly disarmed him before using the tip of his shoe to tap the back on Tewes leg sending him to his knees with a cry of anguish at the thumb grip John had him in.

John had him subdued so fast that his face never once changed from its normal placid composure. He just stood there, holding on to Tewes thumb, waiting for the other two to join him.

“What do you want? I don't know anything! I haven't gone anywhere, I swear. I've been here all along!” Tewes rambled in a state of panic as he tried to pull his hand away. His cries of pain from the grip John had on his thumb mingled with his excuses.

“Stop struggling, you'll only make it worse.” John said as he handed the flick knife over to Lestrade who was watching the scene with a look of amusement, his respect for John going up several more notches. He had the feeling a lot of people underestimated John, himself included. Lestrade took the knife, disengaged the blade and dropped it into his pocket. Sherlock just looked like a cat that had eaten the canary as he joined them.

“Well...” Sherlock purred, rubbing his hands together as he looked at the unfortunate Tewes. “This is more like it.”

“I ain't got nothing!” Tewes protested, “Let me go, what have I done to you? I don't even know you!”

“Two nights ago you were at flat in Lurline Gardens.” Lestrade said, hand still pressed hard to his side as he tried to catch his breath. “You removed a suitcase from the building.”

“Wasn't me!” Tewes babbled. “I swear, it wasn't me!”

“Oh, come now,” Sherlock responded, looking down at Tewes. “We know it was you. We have the pictures from the security camera inside, you were taking a suitcase from the building.”

“What of it? Maybe I was just trying to go somewhere, eh? What's the big deal about taking a suitcase away, eh?” Tewes tried to pull out of John's thumb grip again but John only sighed and twisted his hand a little, causing the man to cry out, again.

“That hurts, man!”

“Answer the question,” John said.

“What of it? I just took a suitcase out of a flat.” Tewes whined. “No big deal. I just took it out of the flat.”

“Who asked you to take it out and where did you take it to?” Lestrade demanded.

“I don't know who they were!”

“They?” Sherlock pounced. “How many?”

“Two blokes. Just asked if one of us wanted to earn a few quid. All we had to do was go into this flat and take out a suitcase. Ow, man! Let go of my hand!” Tewes looked reproachfully at John.

“And you just happened not to know either man,” Lestrade said dryly.

“'Course I didn't know them. Didn't want to know them!” Tewes shot back. “They just gave me a few quid to take away a suitcase.”

“You didn't just happen to notice it was heavy, did you?” Lestrade asked sourly, slowly straightening back up.

“Didn't care now, did I? They told me just to take the suitcase out. So I did.”

“Of course not. Curiosity isn't exactly your strong suit.” Sherlock said sarcastically. “Pair of strangers offer you money to take away a heavy suitcase, why should you bother looking inside of it to see what might be in it?”

“Yeah, that's right!” Tewes squirmed under John's grip. “That's just what I did. I'm not stupid!”

Before Sherlock could say anything Lestrade stepped in closer, looking into Tewes eyes. “Where did you take the case to?”

“What's the big deal about this case?” Tewes asked, looking between the three men.

Lestrade leaned in closer, his intense eyes capturing the nervously blinking Tewes. “Where,” he growled, “did you take the suitcase?”

“Oww, lay off my thumb!” Tewes protested as John tweaked his hand. “What's so important about this bloody case?” He let out a cry of pain, again, at John's ministration.

“Just answer the question,” John said, wearily.

“Fawcett Close!” Tewes cried. “Took it to a flat in Fawcett Close!”

“Address and flat number.” Lestrade barked out. “Now!”

As Tewes spilled the information out, Sherlock turned away, a sour look on his face as his thoughts went inward. Seconds later, Tewes was scrambling to his feet, holding his hand close to his chest and looking at John with apprehension.

“You broke my thumb, man!” He complained.

“It's not broken.” John rebuked mildly. “Be glad it isn't. It can be arranged, however,” he added.

“Get out of here.” Lestrade jerked his head towards the main road. Tewes, looking at them with deep suspicion, slowly began backing away from them watching them warily as Sherlock began leading them towards Kinglake Street. Tewes turned from them when they reached the road and began jogging east towards Old Kent Road, the three men following.

“Fawcett Close...” Lestrade murmured, slowing down. “That's got to be west of here.” He was running his hand down his side, an expression of pain on his face.

“West and north. Just off York Road.” Sherlock informed as they approached the busy Old Kent Road. He was searching for a convenient taxi.

“Are you all right?” John asked, turning towards Lestrade.

“I'm fine...” Lestrade said through grit teeth, watching Eldon Tewes dart into the road, dodging traffic to try and cross. His sixth sense was telling him something was off. He frowned, ignoring both John's questions and Sherlock who was waving down a cab.

Lestrade saw the car moving out across traffic, cutting off other drivers at it began to accelerate. Horn's began blaring as John, seeing the look on Lestrade's face, and the sound of the car speeding up, jerked his head around. Both men watched in horror as the car ploughed hard into the heedless Eldon Tewes.

He was flipped up and over the car like a rag doll, the sickening thud of his body audible even over the traffic noise. The sound stopped people in their tracks as traffic swerved and screeched to a halt where Tewes was lying face down on the tarmac, body twisted and broken. The car that had hit him sped off, disappearing down another road with a screech of tyres and was gone.

“Dear god,” John shouted, beginning to break into a run. “They didn't even stop!”

“No!” Sherlock warned, barely having enough time to throw an arm out in front of Lestrade.

“What do you mean no?” Lestrade snapped, trying to extract his mobile as he began to shove Sherlock's arm aside.

“John, stop!” Sherlock ordered, turning to confront Lestrade. “You can't do anything for him.” He snapped at Lestrade, grabbing both of his arms to stop him.

“I sure as hell can,” John snapped at him, turning to run towards the gathering crowd.

“Everyone else is calling emergency services, we can't get involved!” Sherlock snapped at them both as Lestrade began to break his grip on his arms.

“What do you mean we can't get involved,” Lestrade argued, “I've got my duties to perform! As well as him,” He included John.

Sherlock turned on Lestrade, meeting him eye to eye, his eyes blazing with a fiery truth. “And _you're_ on suspension from the Yard for the kidnapping of your wife! _You have no duties._ How's it going to look to them when you show up at the housing estate of the man seen taking her out of your building? Then he ends up dead moments after you're seen speaking to him? We can't get involved,” Sherlock snarled into his face. “That's what you get for flashing your warrant card at him!” he added.

Lestrade looked at him in a mixture of anger and terrible realization.

John, torn between the need to do his job and the horrifying truth coming from Sherlock, looked back at the crowd already forming around the body in grisly fascination, seeing people with mobiles in their hands.

“Get in the cab,” Sherlock urged, jerking the door open, pushing Lestrade towards it. “Come on, John!”

John could only look back at the scene helplessly, before he turned towards the cab in utter disgust.

Sherlock gave the address to the cabbie as the other two struggled with the turn of events. Inwardly both men wrestled with the conflicting need to do their jobs and the realities of the situation Lestrade now found himself in. The ride to the location that Tewes had provided was tense and wordless, Sherlock ignoring both men.

“I should have stayed behind,” John said, climbing out of the cab at Fawcett Close. “I might have been able to...”

“There was nothing you could have done.” Sherlock cut him off sharply. “He was marked. He was dead before he hit the street.”

“He's a human being!” John snapped.

“You're devotion to civic duty is touching but woefully misplaced,” Sherlock snarled. “Tewes couldn't be saved.”

“How do you _know_ that?” Lestrade demanded, his eyes still blazing with anger at his own helplessness. He was struggling not to keel over in pain as his wound throbbed hotly. The painkillers he had taken wearing off rapidly with the exertion.

“There's far more going on here in this situation than even you or I can fathom.” Sherlock shot back. “And you, more than either of us, need to focus on one thing at a time. Like finding your wife!” He set off at a fast clip, heading for the address that Tewes had given to them. “Nothing could have been done for him, John,” he added as an aside. “He was a walking dead man for even taking the job to begin with. They just waited for us to show up to finish the job.”

Rolling his eyes in exasperation, Lestrade followed him. “Who is _they_?” he demanded.

“Who ever it is who wants to make a mockery of you. If you'd stayed behind to try and help, you'd have been back at the Yard facing Dimmock in an interrogation room. The least you can do is thank me for preventing _that_ from occurring.” Sherlock said.

“Oh gee, thanks!” Lestrade snapped at him.

“But why wait for us to show up before killing him?” John asked.

“To show us that they are one step ahead.” Sherlock jerked the door to the building open and strode inside. “And to try and make _him_ look even more like a prime suspect.” He nodded at Lestrade. “What we need to do is get one step ahead of them.”

“But how?” John asked, still struggling with exasperation.

“Haven't figured that out yet.” Sherlock tossed back over his shoulder as he headed for the stairs.

He was up the steps two at a time, followed quickly by John. Lestrade trailed behind, stopping at the top the second flight, hand gripping the rail and bent over, gasping for breath as he watched Sherlock and John approach the door to a flat. He hauled himself upright, arm tucked in tight against his side and managed to lean back against the wall, shutting his eyes a moment at the pain and grimacing.

“Greg?” John was at his side.

Snapping his eyes open, Lestrade looked over in time to see Sherlock disappearing into the flat. “How'd he...” He started to say when John flicked the lapel of his coat aside.

“Don't ask.” John warned, “Move your hand, let me take a look.”

Lestrade winced, and looked down, gingerly pulling his hand away. John pulled back the lapel of Lestrade's suit and sighed. A small spot of blood had appeared on Lestrade's shirt.

John looked at him severely. “You're done,” he said flatly. “The stitches have pulled. We either go to hospital and get it taken care of or go back home and I can do it there.”

Lestrade looked down in dismay, not quite able to see the blood on his shirt and then towards the flat Sherlock had entered. “That first...” he said through grit teeth and pushed himself from the wall.

John, his lips pursed in disgust, just shook his head and followed Lestrade to the flat.

Despite knowing it wouldn't be so, Lestrade had hoped to find Anne in the flat. He hid the disappointment behind his ever present stoicism and looked inside.

It was furnished, but not occupied. There was no sign of life, other than Sherlock standing in the dead centre of the room, calmly taking in the open suitcase and everything else around him. Lestrade hesitated in the doorway, fully aware he was illegally entering a premises, but on seeing Sherlock stoop over his suitcase he entered anyway.

John followed behind in time to see Sherlock extract a pair of tweezers and a small evidence bag from his coat pocket. Not for the first time he wondered if Sherlock's overcoat had gained the storage capacity of a TARDIS.

“What'd you find?” Lestrade asked, a hint of hope in his eyes.

Waving his hand over the suitcase Sherlock said, “There's nothing here indicating whether or not your wife has been here. The suitcase has been wiped clean, there'll be no evidence there.” Sherlock looked around carefully again and added, “However they weren't so careful of their footprints.” He stooped and began tugging at something in the carpeting. There was a purr of satisfaction in his voice. “Shouldn't have been so careless!” He added with a smile. “The depth on some of the prints in the carpet indicate someone carrying weight. That would be Anne.”

“I don't care what you say,” Lestrade said firmly, digging into his pocket for his mobile. “I am calling this one in. This is our first solid lead.”

“You,” Sherlock said, rising and turning towards Lestrade, “had better listen to your doctor,” he nodded at John. “I can handle this.”

“You're going to call it in?” John asked, he actually blinked in amazement knowing Sherlock's contempt for the majority of the police.

“Better me, _alone_ , than him.” Sherlock said, examining the floor while he pulled out another tiny baggie. “I can keep Dimmock and the others occupied, while you get that seen to.”

“You're tampering with evidence you know,” Lestrade pointed out.

“Not tampering, just getting my own samples. I can show whoever is on the forensics team what to look for. I've left some behind for them.”

“And just how many more rules are you going to bend here?” Lestrade asked.

“Same number as you...” Sherlock looked up and smirked at him.

“Right.” John said firmly. “As you have so tactfully pointed out, semantics can be argued later.” He turned to Lestrade. “Come on then, we need to get those stitches taken care of.” Before Lestrade could even open his mouth to argue John just looked at him, steel in his eyes. “Now.”

“I'll meet you back at Baker Street.” Sherlock said. “I shouldn't be long.” He turned away then, dismissing them, and continued examining the floor.

Lestrade, wanting to protest further, finally just heaved a sigh and with a rueful glance at John, followed him silently out of the flat.

“He's damned lucky I let him bend the rules around procedure.” Lestrade muttered.

“He'd bend them anyway,” John retorted. “Besides, he is working far faster than we can all expect.”

“But we still haven't heard any word about Anne, I don't even know if she's dead or alive.”

“If these people want for you to suffer, she's probably still alive,” John said slowly. Neither one had to raise the spectre of how long she would remain that way. It was silently hanging about them.

The wait back at 221b was interminably long. John tended to Lestrade's wound then insisted that the DI go upstairs and at least rest, if he couldn't sleep. Lestrade, feeling every ounce of weariness and constant throbbing pain, finally acquiesced but not before dealing with one of the hardest phone calls he would ever have to make in his life. Calling Anne's parents. Feeling wretched indeed, afterwards, he finally did lie down and within in a matter of minutes was completely out.

Lestrade didn't know how long he had been out when John gently shook his shoulder, calling his name. He shook his head, trying to wake up and grimaced at the lamp that was turned on by the bedside. He realized it was fully dark outside. John was standing besides the bed, and one look at his face brought Lestrade fully awake.

“What is it?”

“There's a development,” John said his face utterly devoid of emotion. “Come on downstairs.”

Lestrade, with a groan at his pain, slowly swung his feet to the floor. “Is he back?”

“No, he called and he's on his way. He also sent me this.” John held up his mobile.

Blinking a little in confusion, Lestrade ran a hand through his hair as he took John's mobile in his other hand. On the screen a simple message said, 'Check website.'

“Who's website? His?” Lestrade asked, following John to the sitting room.

John had a fire going, and had been sitting at the small table, his laptop opened and on. “Greg, just brace yourself.” John warned as he walked over and turned the laptop around for them both to see.

If the recent series of events in Lestrade's life hadn't already been considered surreal, it became even more so as he stared at Sherlock's own website. There was a live video feed running, from a link on an anonymous comment on the site. A time stamp in the lower corner was ticking off the seconds. A cluttered room, with an old stone wall from what Lestrade could see, was lit by a single overhead light casting gloomy shadows amongst empty kegs and old furniture. There was a sunken window well to the right, showing blackness and a few far distant lights. But that was not the thing that reached into Lestrade's guts and twisted so tight that he actually clutched his stomach in pain.

Anne sat to one side of the room. She was strapped to a wooden chair with armrests, legs and wrists held in place by restraints that looked suspiciously like those used in psychiatric wards to restrain unruly patients. Her head was down and she was blindfolded, limp blonde hair obscuring her face as it hung down.

“Oh. Dear. God.” Lestrade whispered, reaching up, placing his hand over his mouth as if to stop any more words from escaping. He looked at a grim John. “How long has this been on?” He was appalled at the strain in his voice.

“No idea. The minute I got his text and opened his website, I came up and got you.”

Lestrade mentally shook himself, somehow managing to tap into that stoic reserve he had long ago built to deal with horrific crime scenes and forced himself to apply it to the situation at hand. He drew in a deep breath, then pulled a chair out and sat down in front of the laptop. He forced himself to study the site, mindful of his wife's slow, even, breathing and wondered if she was still under the influence of drugs.

Something about the room seemed vaguely familiar but he couldn't put his finger on what it was. His fingers hovered over the touch pad on John's computer and he nudged the volume up, wondering if anything could be heard. The only sound seemed to be coming from the equipment used to actually film what was going on inside the room.

That was until something in the room caused Anne to start, jerking her awake. Her whole body reacted, rocking the chair back hard as she gasped out loud, turning her head frantically towards where ever the sound had come from. Unable to locate it, she finally stopped struggling against the bonds, panting for breath. Her fingers twitched as she uselessly pulled at the restraints, twisting her hands in an effort to try and loosen them. She tried tilting her head, to look under the blindfold and finally gave up, hanging her head in despair.

Going limp again, she heaved a sigh. The sound feed picked up the utter despair in her voice.“Oh Greg,” she mourned, the depth of remorse in her voice causing Lestrade to grip the sides of the table with his hands so hard his knuckles turned white. He closed his eyes.

“I'm so sorry,” she whispered, “I'm so sorry...”

 **End Chapter 6**


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

“Why is this on his website?” Lestrade hissed. “Why _his_ website?”

John was utterly unable to say a thing as Lestrade reached for his mobile. He hit speed dial, slipped the phone to his ear and forced himself to commit the room Anne was in to memory.

“Donovan,” he said urgently, “Get to a computer, pull up Sherlock's website.” He closed his eyes briefly in exasperation, adding, “I don't care that he's been running rampant, get his website up now! Have you got it? Get on the feedback page and click the link on the anonymous posting. Have forensics start recording that video feed somehow. And get someone to track down the service providers. Find out where that feed is coming from. Yes, I know you aren't supposed to be working on this, get Dimmock involved. This is the first proof we have that Anne is still alive!”

“Greg...” John's voice warned suddenly. Lestrade glanced at John who was staring intently at the computer screen. Lestrade tensed.

Someone had entered the room.

“Are you watching this?” Lestrade said into the mobile, hearing the sudden outburst at activity in the background as Donovan began barking out rapid fire directions and orders.

“Who's there?” Anne's voice was full of fear and apprehension. “Who's there? What's going on? What do you want?”

They watched as a stocky, older man dressed entirely in black appeared on the screen. His face was obscured by a blurred spot, which seemed to move about with a life of its own, keeping the man's features from being clearly seen and following him where ever he moved.

“You're sure to be watching this by now, Inspector Lestrade,” the man said to the camera. His voice mechanically altered to a monotone, yet there was a hint of mockery and superiority in his words. He was in complete control.

“How the hell does he know?” Lestrade growled.

“His link might have an indicator of people who are watching?” John murmured.

In the background they could see Anne pulling at the restraints, her hands clenched into fists as she tracked the stranger in the room. “Who are you?” She demanded again.

Ignoring her, the man came closer, speaking to the camera as if Lestrade was in the room with him. “I've been waiting a long time for this, Lestrade,” he said. “A very long time. There's a saying that revenge is a dish best served cold. Also that revenge is sweet; especially to a woman.” There was a hint of amusement in the man's voice as he reached down and unbuckled the strap holding Anne's left wrist.

“What are you doing?” She asked, tensing at the contact, the fear in her voice rising. She started to struggle again as the man grabbed her wrist tightly, pulling her hand up. “No!” She jerked hard, trying to break his grasp.

“Although that last quote probably wasn't meant for this context.” The distorted voice produced an eerie, spine tingling and utterly cold chuckle as the man, still gripping Anne's wrist, used his other hand to spread out her fingers, as if to examine them. Anne struggled, her protests escalating as she tried to pull away, but he was far stronger.

“You took everything that was mine.” The man droned. “So now I am going to start taking everything that is yours. Your job, your reputation, your wife,” He paused a moment, studying Anne's hand, “and eventually you.”

The watchers saw the man tilt his head as he began to minutely examine Anne's little finger. “You took what was mine. You had no business doing that, so I am going to take it away from you.”

A note of panic had filled Anne's voice as she desperately continued to try and pull her hand away from the iron grip he had on her. They could see the man's fingers on her hand tighten as he began bending her little finger down.

Lestrade had become still as a rock, unable to turn away from the screen but knowing what was coming.

“I started a job a long time ago that you never let me finish.” The mechanically changed voice continued on coldly. “And since I can't complete the job on the one I started with, I'll finish on this one. You _are_ watching aren't you, Lestrade?” The taunting voice asked to the camera. “If not, don't worry, I'm taping it for you to watch later. There's going to be a lot more of this to come.” He chuckled again, “She's a pretty little thing, your wife,” he intoned, then in a softer voice added, “My wife had hands very much like hers...”

He suddenly, viciously, clamped down hard on Anne's finger.

The snap of the bone was clearly audible. Anne's entire body jerked as if electrocuted, her indrawn deep gulp of air at the sudden abuse quickly followed by an uncontrolled shivering of shock at the brutality of his action. Her protesting became an anguished-filled pleading as she tried to no avail to get her hand out of his grip. Then the pain hit her, her shrieks tore through everyone who was listening.

Lestrade was distantly aware of the gasp of horror coming from John as he felt a ice cold hand clutch his heart. His face had gone grim and pale. On the mobile still held to his ear, he could hear Sally Donovan swearing.

The man in the video clenched Anne's wrist in his right hand as he paused, listening to her scream. “She can scream all she wants,” he said over Anne's torment. “No one will be able to hear her.” Anne subsided to a gut wrenching sobbing as she pleaded for understanding. Her captor simply gripped her wrist in a vice as the pain caused spasms in her hand.

“There will be more of this to come later,” the voice promised, leaving the question of who it was directed at up in the air, even worse the chilling certainty of the cold mechanical words. There was a pause as the man reached up and began to stroke the backs of his fingers on Anne's tear stained cheek. “You picked a feisty one, Lestrade. Saw the marriage announcement on a scrap of paper smuggled into the prison... that's what got me started on how I would get my revenge.” He continued stroking her cheek, even as she tried to jerk her head away. “I simply can't let you get away with what you did to me.”

As he slowly stroked his fingers down Anne's cheek, her crying subsided to gasping for breath. She had her head turned as far away from him as she could manage. Tense and stiff with fear and anguish, she hesitated a moment as his hand slid slowly, caressingly, down her cheek.

Then abruptly she bit him.

“Ha!” Sherlock's voice barked out in approval, his appearance in the room having gone completely unnoticed in the horrified attention the other two had on the computer screen.

On camera, Anne's jaw clenched as she bit down hard on the hand, refusing to let it go as the man let out a grunt of surprise. He jerked his hand out of her mouth, shaking it as he stepped back from her in surprise, releasing the grip he had on her wrist.

His surprise lasted only a few seconds. Without another word he lifted his bitten hand and began to slap her face. Not in rage, not in a fit, but slowly, rhythmically, forehand, backhand, and as hard as he possibly could. Anne tried to defend herself, raising her freed arm to protect her face, but he grabbed her wrist anew, and a struggle ensued as he forced her arm down to strap her wrist back in place. In the struggling Anne had formed a fist, pulling back hard as he strapped her back to the chair, capturing more of her fist than her wrist. Rendering his victim defenceless, he continued his beating.

“Dear god!” John whispered in horror, turning away from the laptop, running his hand down his face. Behind them Sherlock was holding his mobile watching the live feed on his phone, his thumbs were flying over the keyboard.

Unable to look away from the computer screen, Lestrade suddenly noticed a response appear to the anonymous posters link.

'Beating on a woman is so passé,' it read. 'Not to mention boring. Surely you can do better than this? Then again, probably not, prison has dulled you.'

Lestrade's grim features suddenly developed an angry scowl as he turned from the screen and looked at Sherlock.

“Watch!” Sherlock ordered, directing his attention back to the screen.

On the video feed, there was a sound of a third person in the room and the man beating Anne, looked up, his features still obscured by the blurred pixels. He stopped the slapping, Anne slumping awkwardly in the chair, moaning in pain, and then began to nearly choke on her sobs. The man moved away from the camera's range.

Moments later the blurred face appeared back on the screen. “So your _friend_ seems to think prison has dulled me, Lestrade. He couldn't be more wrong. It's strengthened me. You've only seen a little preview of what I have in store for your precious little wife. Stay tuned...”

The video link abruptly cut off.

Lestrade was up and out of the chair like a rocket, nearly knocking it over as he turned around, his eyes glaring in anger at Sherlock. “What the bloody hell do you think you're doing taunting them like that? That's _my wife_ he's beating!”

“If you'd bother to notice,” Sherlock snapped, “He stopped when he got my message.”

“How the _hell_ did they know to put that link on your website in the first place?” Lestrade demanded. He looked away abruptly, running his had over his face, trying to dispel the savage beating he had just witnessed. He was totally unaware that he was shaking.

“I warned you that there were forces at work here you and I can't fathom. They know of the link between you and I. Posting their video to my website was a wink at that connection.” Sherlock replied.

“How did _you_ know to check your site in the first place?” John asked.

Sherlock shot him a deprecating look and held up his mobile, shaking it. “There's an automatic notification any time someone leaves something on the site. It's a good thing I checked as well.” He turned to look at Lestrade. “I shut down the public access to the feedback page, except for CID and that poster. ”

“Is that supposed to mollify me?” Lestrade snapped. “You've had no experiance, whatsoever, of hostage situations. You could've just got Anne killed, for gods sake!”

“I haven't?” Sherlock looked at him in mock surprise, raising an eyebrow. Lestrade scowled at him, turning and realizing his mobile was still in his hand.

“Donovan?” he asked, shooting a glare towards Sherlock as he slipped by Lestrade to take over the chair in front of John's laptop. “Yes, I'm fine. Do whatever you can to help Dimmock.” He ignored both her protests at being cut off and Sherlock's sigh of disgust as he disconnected the phone. “What do you know about this supposed connection you keep referring to?” he demanded.

“It's obvious, isn't it?” Sherlock complained, getting into his website's user controls where he began resetting different features. “Anne's captor has admitted what I told you yesterday. He's been in prison, he's an older man and he's got a major grudge against you. This operation tells me that he has got no money. To be able to pull off the kidnapping, then set her up in a remote location, with the video equipment takes training and money to hire the right kind of people and locations. Someone is bankrolling this venture. Someone got to him while he was in prison and helped nurse his grudge along.”

“What do you mean remote location? Have you figured out where she is?” John suddenly asked.

“I haven't been out entirely disrupting all the procedures in the squad room at the Yard.” Sherlock said with a nod of approval at John. “I've spent the better part of the evening at Barts. Looking into the bits of evidence I found on the floor of that flat where the suitcase was left.”

“And?” Lestrade growled, folding his arms as he looked sourly at Sherlock.

“I can narrow down the recent location of at least three different sets of footprints that were in the flat, to one area. Specifically to one town.”

“One town?” John exclaimed.

“Whitby, to be precise.” Sherlock remarked.

“How?” Lestrade demanded.

“There was the usual bits of sphagnum and decayed wood in the soil from their boots. Compact that all together and you get peat. Knowing there are peat bogs and moors all over the country, the decayed wood was the next clue. It's fossilized meaning that its become jet which narrows the location to the North York Moors. However, there were tiny bits of fossils in amongst sandstone and alum slate. One of them was a very small, fully intact, ammonite. Where else in England can you find ammonites and jet in abundance in the same location as alum and sandstone?”

“Whitby,” John finished. “ Of course.” It sounded ridiculously easy once he understood.

“Have you ever been to Whitby?” Sherlock swivelled around and looked at Lestrade.

What little colour had been in his face drained away as a dawning realization moved across his features. “Eleven years ago,” Lestrade said, his voice strained. “We were on our honeymoon.” He took a deep breath, turning away as he reached up and ran his hand across the back of his neck.

“Dear god,” John muttered, “This is going beyond personal.”

“That room Anne is in,” Lestrade said slowly, replaying back what he had memorised. “There's something familiar about it. That whole area is full of places build with that type of stone and brick. I know I have seen that wall somehow.”

“Could it be a place you stayed at? Visited? There are museums, shops, everything all over the place around there.” John asked.

“How do you know?” Lestrade asked.

“Went on holiday to Scarborough when I was doing my army training up there. Prowled all over the area. The history is fascinating,” John said. “Whitby also has the best chippie shop in England,” he added inconsequentially.

“The place was a hotbed for smugglers moving contraband from shipwreckers way back when. Nowadays it's the drugs runners,” Lestrade said, wincing and reaching down to his wounded side. “Some of those old places had tunnels from one location to the next.” He shook his head, images of the beating he had just witnessed clouding his memories. “I even know exactly where we stayed. Raven Hall, halfway between Whitby and Scarborough,” he said distantly, his eyes troubled. “I just can't remember all the places we visited.”

For the first time, John really saw the enormous gulf of pain and anguish Lestrade was, for the most part, expertly hiding.

“It'll come,” Sherlock said flatly. “In the mean time, we need to narrow down who Anne's captor is. I've ruled out three of them, including Berswick.” Sherlock said, pulling the link back up on the website. The screen image was still black.

“Eh?” Lestrade looked at him, blinking in confusion, Berswick had been his most likely suspect.

“Berswick was released from prison about a year ago, but he was stabbed to death in a drug deal gone bad. Ironic considering he was an expert with a knife. Guess where?” Sherlock asked wryly.

“Essendon.” Lestrade heaved another sigh. “Who are the other two you've ruled out?”

“Foster is still in prison and Simon Laurelhurst has had his named legally changed since being released from prison by our farce of a legal system. He's scrubbing toilets for a restaurant cleaning service in Liverpool. That leave us with Sinclair Weston, and Dennis Byron. Neither one I've been able to track down, yet.” Sherlock remarked. “Which of those two would have been imprisoned at least eleven years ago?”

Lestrade frowned, reaching up to stroke his chin in thought. “Weston.”

“What about him?” Sherlock glanced at Lestrade.

“He was our prime suspect in a series of killing several years back. Women who were brutally beaten before being asphyxiated. Our problem was that all we had was very slim circumstantial evidence, nothing solid enough to convict him on. Until we caught him nearly beating his wife to death. That alone sent him to prison for a long time. He should still be inside.”

“And the other?” Sherlock prodded.

“Byron, your Islington Strangler.” He looked askance at John. “His MO was to stake out likely suspects, young women, usually druggies or prostitutes. He'd watch them for some time, studying their habits. Some of the girls even reported having had peeping toms, but nothing could be found. The girls would then disappear and they would be found later on the banks of the canal running through Islington, expertly strangled. The murderer had to have very strong hands. Turns out Byron worked for a butcher while he studied to be a nurse. He should also still be in prison.”

“Any more you can think of?” Sherlock wondered.

“Todd Hessions, one of the nastiest child molesters we've ever caught. Had his whole family virtually held hostage while he did unspeakable things to his only daughter. Involved his two sons in on it. She ended up committing suicide and Hessions took his anger out on his wife. He and his boys were sent to prison. I'm surprised Hessions hasn't ended up dead in our prison population.”

“Spousal and child abuse have certainly become all too common,” John remarked, feeling disgust.

“You have no idea...” Lestrade said ruefully, glancing at him, and shaking his head.

John held up a hand, turning away, not wanting to hear any more.

“Be that as it may, that leaves us with two possibles who also have a connection to wives. Weston and Hessions,” Sherlock replied dismissively. “Now all we need to do is find either man and see who has a human bite mark on their left hand. Simplicity itself.” He smiled in satisfaction. “Judging from what I saw, your wife had to have drawn blood.”

“I told her never to give up,” Lestrade said quietly. “Even if it got her...” he stopped, his thoughts turning inwards. He couldn't finish the sentence. He turned away, reaching for his overcoat.

“Where are you going?” John asked.

“Out. I need some air.” Lestrade said, letting out a groan as he slipped the coat on.

“Mind a tag along?” John asked.

Lestrade just shrugged. John nodded and went for his jacket. Sherlock was still absorbed in his website controls.

“We'll be back shortly,” John said as Lestrade headed downstairs. Sherlock didn't reply and John just sighed. After what he had just witnessed, getting out the fresh air would help to dispel the images he felt certain would soon be joining the disturbing memories of his experiences in Afghanistan. He had a feeling that somehow sleep would not come easy tonight.

Neither man spoke as they set off, there really wasn't anything they could say. John instinctively lead, taking them on a long loop around the Baker Street area. At first the pace had been brisk, but after twenty or so minutes, Lestrade slowed noticeably, his wound beginning to aggravate him again. John headed for home and as he did, Lestrade's mobile rang.

“Lestrade,” There was a long pause as he listened to whoever was on the other end. “Oh she has, has she?” he said in a not-so-surprised tone of voice. He listened for several moments, letting out a rueful chuckle at one point. “Do me a favour, Gregson,” he said into the mobile. “Try and keep a tail on her, see where she ends up. And if she starts heading up north? Let me know?” There was another pause before he simply remarked, “Right, thanks,” and he snapped the phone shut.

Lestrade looked out at the city lights, slipping his mobile away. After a moment he said, “That was Gregson, one of my counterparts at the Yard. Seems that Elena Grigorovich has suddenly decided that hasn't got a stalker after all, and has walked out of the safe-house they were keeping her in. Says she wants nothing more to do with the police and has swanned off home.”

John, ambling olong beside him, with his hands stuffed in his pockets to keep warm, said nothing at first. He looked puzzled for a moment, his mouth a moue of thought. “Grigorovich is the one who set this whole thing with Anne in motion isn't she? Was scared of a stalker and wanted Anne's help in trying to track him down?”

“That's right,” Lestrade said. “She managed to talk Anne into asking me for help. I told Anne to tell Elena to get hold of Gregson. Few days later he asked me if I would just agree to accompany Anne out the back of the Royal Opera House. Just to see if anyone would mistake her for Elena while they escorted her home another way.” Lestrade paused. “Anne was certain that Elena was scared to death. I've met Elena Grigorovich. There is very little that scares that woman. She got to her position at the Royal Ballet because of her fearlessness. There's a cold streak running through her.” He pondered for several minutes. “I didn't trust her the minute I met her and she's been a part of Anne's career in London from the very beginning.”

“Revenge is a dish best served cold...” John murmured, looking troubled. “Sweet is revenge; especially to a woman.”

Lestrade looked sharply at John, who suddenly had his head tilted to one side, looking up at the rooftops and thinking hard.

“He said that,” John said thoughtfully. “Your wife's attacker. Then added that it wasn't in the same context. He then began doing what he did to her using the quote as taking out his revenge on you through your wife.” John blinked a few times. “But it's also true in that a woman is ten times more likely to seek revenge. If Elena Grigorovich has something to do with this whole wretched business? She could be seeking revenge on her own. Revenge occurring on a twofold front. Against you and Anne.”

Lestrade had stopped walking. With a frown he had folded his arms, tipping his head back and studying John in a new light. His eyes narrowed as pondered on what John had just said. “Anyone ever tell you that you're positively devious?”

John flashed a smile at him, “Not recently.”

Lestrade was thinking hard at the abrupt light John had provided on the case. “Anne has worked hard all these years to get to the position she's in.” Lestrade mused. “She's been passed over several times. There's always been something, or someone, blocking Anne's move.”

“That could be Grigorovich. What if she sees Anne as being a rival for her place? Anne did say that they look alike, right?” John asked.

“Yes...” Lestrade drawled thoughtfully, reaching up to stroke his chin. “Having a look alike in the company could pose a threat to the more senior dancer. Enough to feel threatened that you could be replaced. Certainly would provide motive to plan some sort of revenge...” Lestrade murmured, digging out his phone again. He placed a quick call to Gregson.

“Gregson, Lestrade...” he said. “Going to cash in on your offer of help. In light of Grigorovich ditching her security detail do something for me? Start checking out who she's had contact with in the last few months. Especially who she's visited recently.” He paused listening a moment and then added. “I especially want to know if she's visited, or been contacted by, anyone in prison. Any prisoner.”

 **End Chapter 7**


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

He had just disconnected the mobile when another ringtone sounded and he looked at John in consternation. John's brows rose in surprise as he patted his jacket pocket before he pulled out his own phone. He looked at the text message on the screen blankly for a moment. Then he sighed, “He has got to be joking.... no, wait, he never jokes.” He reached up and pinched the bridge of his nose, shutting his eyes wearily.

“Sherlock?” Lestrade asked.

“Says we need to be on the last train leaving King's Cross for York. Says he just booked tickets and we owe him.”

Lestrade, still frowning, glanced at his watch. “He can't be serious.”

John could only close his eyes and shake his head in dismay.

Sherlock met them as they came around the corner of Baker Street, where a cab sat idling. He carelessly tossed John's laptop in his direction, causing John to sputter in indignation as he caught it.

“Why is it always _my_ laptop that gets abused?” he demanded, as Sherlock opened the door.

“The warranty is almost up and it's due to crash soon anyway. I did back up all your files for when it does. You could at least thank me for that. We need to hurry.”

John just shot a sour look at him.

“You can't be serious, haring off to Yorkshire like this,” Lestrade protested, crossing his arms and for all the world looking like he was digging in his heels like a stubborn mule.

Sherlock turned on him. “I can be serious and if you _really_ are serious about finding your darling Anne, you'd be getting into the cab as well. We haven't got much time to spare here.”

“All based on the evidence that three of the sods who where in the flat in Fawcett Close were in Whitby? How can you be so absolutely certain Anne is there?”

“Three men who just happened to have come from Whitby to pick up a hostage? Coupled with the fact her attacker says she can scream all she wants and no one can hear her? This man also indicated that he is following in your footsteps, so to speak, regarding your activities with your wife. He could easily find out where you stayed, especially if he is being sponsored by someone with a great deal of money.” Sherlock's eyes were blazing with the conviction of his thoughts. “Think about that pitch blackness from the sunken window in that room Anne is being kept in. There is a marked absence of city lights. For that matter, there was only a far distant light of a house and a green signal light indicating a rail line. That tells me countryside. Countryside is the worst place for crimes. They can go undetected and unstopped for years on end because of the isolation! Do you need any more proof?” He demanded. “I loathe the countryside,” he added as an aside.

“Oh, just get in the damn cab!” Lestrade snapped at him, scowling in frustration.

“But you're still guessing,” John pointed out.

“Based on what facts we have, there is no other possibility where she could be.” Sherlock argued as he got into the cab. “If you have a better idea, please, lay out your evidence and see if we come up with another conclusion.”

When neither man responded, Sherlock just smirked, “Better hurry...” he warned.

In a dizzying amount of time, they were on the last train for York. Booking tickets so late meant that all three men sat apart. Sherlock immediately had his mobile out, silent but furiously texting as the train jostled them north. John sat across the aisle, watching out the window at the passing lights until they hit the countryside proper, where they thinned out further and further revealing nothing but darkness. He also kept a surreptitious eye on Lestrade.

Lestrade, long a creature of interrupted habits and sleep patterns, had angled himself in the dual seats he'd picked several seats behind Sherlock. He stretched his legs out, crossed his arms and had dropped off into an uncomfortable cat nap. He had a look of pain and utter fatigue on his features despite nodding off fairly quickly and John scowled when he realized they had left in such a hurry that Lestrade had none of his prescriptions with him.

John heaved a sigh, looking out the window at the blackness, and pulled out his phone. He was busy for several minutes and on conclusion he rose from his seat, glanced at Lestrade, then sat down next to Sherlock.

Sherlock, hardly moving from his texting, raised an eyebrow. “Problem?” he asked.

“Yeah.” John replied, simply.

Sherlock hesitated, a look of uncertainty crossing his face. He glanced at his flatmate. “Go on.”

John looked at him, and pointed over his shoulder at Lestrade. “In case you haven't noticed, that man is knackered.”

“And?”

“He's got a knife wound. He's probably had less than eight hours of sleep in the last seventy two and I wouldn't be worth my medical licence if I didn't think he's running a fever right now.”

“Your point being?”

“He needs to rest.” John said flatly, his chin lifting in stubbornness. “What are you're plans once we get to Whitby?”

Sherlock hesitated again.

John just fixed his gaze intently on the back of the seat in front of him. “Just as I thought, you haven't got any.”

“Based on some very good intelligence...” Sherlock started.

“When we get there, we're going to ground. I've booked us a family room at the George. Then he is going down.”

Sherlock's lips curled in a wry, slightly mocking smile at John's bluntness. “If you say so, Doctor.”

“He's going to be no use if he has a relapse. I can only stitch him up just so many times. Whatever needs to be done in Whitby, you and I can do it.”

“And how do you propose to get him to stop?”

“I'm not. You are.”

Sherlock, focusing intently on his mobile, raised a brow in surprise. “Me?”

“You. Lestrade is following your every move in this situation. You need to stop long enough for him to rest. If you start searching Whitby the moment we get there, he's going to insist on joining you. I don't care what you tell him, but you must get him to rest.”

“And what is more important? Getting him to slow down, or finding his wife, alive?”

“I'm not going to even dignify that with an answer.” John said tersely. “As a doctor I'm trying to keep him from ending up back in hospital. You can, at least, help.”

“I thought helping was what I've been doing....” Sherlock retorted.

“By driving him into the ground? If he were able bodied he'd be able to keep up, but he's not.”

“You're defense is touching to a certain degree but when it comes to saving the life of a woman who is being beaten before our very eyes, there's very little room for compassion and care.”

“All of which you have clearly set aside for the thrill of the chase.”

“What point is there in cluttering up the chase when time is of the essence?”

“I don't consider the life of a patient clutter no matter what is at stake. It may be a game to you Sherlock, but it's not to him. He is literally driving himself into the ground. It's far more personal to him than you, for god's sake!”

There was a pause, then Sherlock murmured. “You're angry.”

“Not so much angry, as alarmed. Finding Anne is of the utmost importance. But keeping him alive is just as important. I don't care what you tell him. Get him to slow down.”

Sherlock glanced at John, smirking ever so slightly at him. “He may be tired and hurt but he's not going to slow down until he finds his wife. He won't _allow_ himself to slow down until he does or drops dead. There's a reason he's been called tenacious.”

“We're not even one hundred percent sure Anne is even in Whitby!” John hissed.

“More around thirty percent, based on what we've got, but that beats the zero percent we have on any where else. Besides,” Sherlock waved a hand negligently. “He's used to my methods, he trusts it to a certain degree, you on the other hand...” Sherlock looked at John.

“Oh, don't give me that look. Most of the time you're correct. But there are two lives at stake here.”

“Most of the time?” Sherlock asked. “He knows as well as I do that time is of the essence in tracking down a kidnap victim. Yes, the stakes are higher in that he is emotionally involved with the victim, that is for him to deal with and if he chooses to run himself into the ground, who am I to stop him?”

“Oh, just a friend.” John replied acidly.

“Shall I make the argument that Lestrade and I are more colleagues or business acquaintances as opposed to friends? You know as well as I where I am on that scale.”

John just closed his eyes in defeat, heaving a sigh. He prepared to get up out of the seat to move back to his own.

“Your concern, _doctor_ , is duly noted.”

“How refreshing.”

If he wasn't already convinced about Lestrade's state, John was made even more so when they arrived shortly after midnight in York. Sweat had darkened the steel grey hair of Lestrade's temples indicating fever and his movements were even more sluggish as he struggled out of the train seats. That he was walking more like an old man than a man in his prime was painfully obvious.

Emerging into a light drizzle from the station, John looked around in dismay. “There's no chance of getting a bus this late at night.”

“Who said anything about a bus?” Sherlock replied, looking around and spying a nearby taxi. He caught the driver's eyes and snapped his fingers.

“You're off your nut...” Lestrade growled behind him. “Taking a cab to Whitby? The cost is going to be enormous!”

Sherlock turned, meeting him eye to eye challengingly. “Well if you feeling like hanging around this station until morning then taking a three hours bus ride to Whitby, be my guest. I, for one, will take the cab.”

“There's no way I could pay for even my part of a fare like that!” John protested.

Sherlock just sighed, reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and withdrew his credit card with two fingers, holding it up like a tiny flag.

“We can discuss IOU's later,” he said and headed across the street to the waiting taxi. “I texted ahead to have a cab waiting for us when we arrived.”

They had barely set off when Lestrade's mobile rang. “Lestrade,” he said and paused listening to whoever was on the other line. His eyes, despite the circles under them, sparked with intensity as he took in what was being said on the other line. “Right, text me details, thanks Gregson,” he said and disconnected. He glanced at John.

“Elena Grigorovich hired a car and promptly vanished. The rental place said she hired it for an indefinite period. She hasn't met with any prisoners in the recent past, but they did find that she met with a guard from Full Sutton prison.”

“Are Hessions or Weston incarcerated there?” Sherlock automatically asked.

“Doesn't know, yet. They're working on it.”

“I warned you she was involved in this,” Sherlock said. “Full Sutton is a category A prison, for the worst offenders. Why would a guard be contacting her from there I wonder?” he asked rhetorically.

“She's involved in this somehow,” John remarked, “Possibly for some revenge of her own.”

“You've only now figured that out?” Sherlock asked. “She's had a grudge against Anne Lestrade since she started working there.”

“And just _what_ would you know about it?” Lestrade snapped at him.

“Friends in high places.” Sherlock said vaguely. “Don't jump to conclusions, nothing illegal has occurred, until now that is.”

Lestrade was about to open his mouth in protest when he caught the forbidding look in John's eyes. He turned his focus on him. “What?” he asked him.

“He's being an argumentative arse.” John said bluntly.

“When isn't he?” Lestrade shot back causing Sherlock to just smirk at them both.

If he wasn't already exhausted from the trip north to York, Lestrade was nearly out of it when they pulled into Whitby. He felt John lay a hand on his shoulder and he groaned, reaching up with his hand to scrub at his face. It took a little more effort to get out of the seat and the wound in his side throbbed unmercifully at the punishment it was under. He couldn't help keeping his arm tucked in close.

They had pulled up in front a large building, obviously a hotel, flying a large white flag with a Georgian red cross.

“Where are we?” He asked, blinking at the stiff breeze and the smell of the ocean that hit them upon disembarking.

“The George,” Sherlock said, “Not much we can do until it gets light out.”

“It's not a bad place, really. Pretty central to everything,” John said nodding his head, stuffing his hands into his pockets, and shivering at the cold. He didn't have to ask what it was doing to Lestrade. Sherlock was virtually impervious to anything.

“How are we going to get accommodations at this hour?” Lestrade grumbled, hunching against the cold and the pain, the wind ruffling hair.

“I called ahead just outside of London,” John replied. “A bit short notice, but it's the off season.”

Lestrade seemed to accept the reason and followed slowly behind the two as they crossed the street. The wind buffeted them and all three where hunched into their coats. Lestrade concentrated on staying upright, just putting one foot in front of the other and trying not to stagger in the process.

“Recognize anything?” Sherlock asked.

“Some, not everything though,” Lestrade said, frowning in thought. Everywhere he looked, buildings were made almost entirely of local brick and stone. The same local bricks and stone. It seemed a mockery to him, too many places all looking remarkably similar except for their fronts. Trying to find one particular building with a recognizable basement, from the inside, was going to be damned near impossible. A real needle in haystack.

“Ever been on the Ghost walk?” John asked to Sherlock's snort of derision.

“Yes, actually,” Lestrade replied. “Anne found it amusing that the storyteller and the different shop keepers were spilling out their stories of murders, smugglings, and whatnots to a Scotland Yard Detective Sergeant. Which I was at the time...” Lestrade said slowly. “People opening up around me amuses her no end.” There was the faintest touch of melancholy in his voice.

The George was well lit and warm when they entered to be greeted by the late night concierge. To John's endless surprise, Sherlock beat him to the punch by producing his credit card first and handing it over. Within a matter of minutes they entered a clean, warm room with two single beds and a double bed between them. Almost instantly Sherlock dropped into the lone chair at a table, snapped open John's laptop and began getting online using the hotel's wireless connection for their guests.

“Greg, it's none of my business, but I know you don't have your painkillers with you. Whitby Community Hospital is just up the road. I can get you a prescription.” John said as Lestrade slowly sat down on the corner of the double bed.

“If we weren't in such a bloody rush to get here, I might have been able to grab them from the flat.” Lestrade said as he carefully pulled his overcoat off his shoulders. Sherlock ignored him. Lestrade sighed, and glanced at John. “Wouldn't be a bad idea though. If we're not doing anything until morning.”

“If I can pin-point that rail signal, we can go far in locating the house, unless you can remember anything more about where you two visited,” Sherlock remarked.

“Honestly, I can barely think straight for the pain.” Lestrade said ruefully.

“That's settled then. I'm going to head over there. Hopefully the pharmacy will be accommodating. I shouldn't be long.” John said, turning for the door. As he reached for the knob, Sherlock rose from the chair, for all intents and purposes about to follow John out the door.

“And where are you going?” Lestrade asked.

“Downstairs. Thought I saw a map of the town in the brochures,” Sherlock obfuscated. “Who knows, it could come in handy. Besides, I'm dying for a cuppa. Get you anything?” Sherlock asked as John stepped out into the hall.

Lestrade frowned in suspicion at them both then shook his head. “No, not at this stage.”

“Right,” Sherlock said brightly. “Shouldn't be long then. Keep an eye on the website and your mobile close. In case anything happens.” He promptly shut the door, leaving Lestrade suddenly alone in the hotel.

“And you think I'm a lousy liar.” John grumbled in amusement as they headed back down to the main lobby.

“You wanted me to get him to slow down. I did what I could. Where are you going?”

“The hospital, like I said. He needs some painkillers and antibiotics. I'm going to get them for him.” John said flatly, then looked at Sherlock. “And where are you going?”

“Going to do a little exploring. You might be an hour or more. Where should we meet?” Sherlock asked, flipping his collar up as they stepped back outside in the stiff breeze.

“Nothing's open this late.” John remarked. “Just meet back here?”

“Fine,” Sherlock replied and without another word he turned left and set off towards the river. John just shook his head then crossed the street, heading over to the hospital.

In the room, Lestrade still sat on the corner of the double bed. With no one around, he allowed himself a moment to really feel the effects of what had occurred to him in the last 72 hours. He hurt like hell, his thinking was getting fuzzy and his head was fit to burst. He glanced at the laptop on the table open to Sherlock's website then noticed the coffee and tea making supplies. He shook his head. There really were times when Sherlock was a lousy liar. It was rare, but still... Lestrade heaved a sigh and, with a groan at the pain, got up to check out the en-suite bathroom.

A short while later Lestrade was in the process of making himself a cup of coffee, fully intent on setting off into town to look for either of his companions, and hoping to jog his memory, when he heard the sound of an incoming message to Sherlock's website. He set the cup down and turned the laptop towards him, a chill creeping up the back of his neck as he recognized the link for another live video feed. With a touch from his finger on the mouse pad he opened the link. Bare seconds later he heard his mobile announce an incoming message and he knew it would be from Sherlock.

It was the same scenario all over again. The man's face obscured by a floating blur of pixels. Anne still restrained in the chair. The gloomy room and its clutter of furniture lit only by the overhead light. And the sunken window still showing it was pitch dark, a far distant light and what he now saw as a green rail signal showing the track was clear. The man was slowly approaching Anne, both his hands rotating a handkerchief into a long thin band.

Anne's face showed the swelling and dark bruising of her earlier beating. Her lip had been cut, and blood had dried where it had trickled from the corner of her mouth onto her cheek and neck. Still blindfolded, she had tensed, turning her face towards him, her cheeks tear-stained and she began asking who was in the room, what did they want, why were they doing this to her?

“Hush now,” the man's mechanically altered voice said as he walked up behind her. A furious struggle ensued, all captured by the camera, as the man proceeded to gag her. She was crying again, trying not to choke as she shook her head in a futile attempt to dislodge the gag. The man chuckled again, running the backs of his fingers down her cheek as she jerked her head away.

“Mustn't bite the hand that beats you, my dear,” he said.

Lestrade closed in eyes in horror, slowly sitting down in the chair then forcing himself to focus on the video feed again.

“Your husband took something away from me years ago for which he must pay,” the man said walking around in front of Anne where he stooped down and removed her shoes. “Someone betrayed me back then. Someone whom I was teaching a lesson to when your husband interrupted me. This time I am going to finish the lesson, and I will not be interrupted.” He reached down, pinching hard on Anne's thigh just above her knee, causing her to jerk violently at the sudden pain. He reached down with the other hand and unstrapped the restraint on her left ankle.

The pain of his grip and the suddenness of his action didn't allow her much chance to struggle and he had her foot in a vice-like grip before she could even fully react. Still she began trying to scream at him in anger and fear through the gag, shaking her head in protest, jerking in the chair.

“Do you know that there are twenty six bones in the foot alone?” the mechanical voice said. The man had gripped her leg under his arm, holding her bare foot in both hands, examining the bone structure of her foot. “A ballet dancer depends on three bones in their foot. Particularly, the first metatarsil,” He ran his finger along the top of her foot indicating the bone in question. “Then proximal phalange and the bone for which they balance en pointe, called the distal phalange.” He pinched her toe.

Stroking the top of Anne's foot again, he ignored her futile attempts to struggle and protest. “If one of these bones gets broken it could be weeks or even months before a good dancer can get reconditioned enough to be able to balance on that foot again. Be a damned shame is something where to happen to one of these three bones. Wouldn't it?” He turned a moment to look back at her. He then lapsed into a momentary silence, gripping her foot in his hands.

He broke the bone in her foot so fast, it couldn't be seen by the camera, but Anne's reaction was all to obvious. Her whole body arched, head thrown back and her neck muscles strained at her attempts to scream. Spasms of pain shook her, as her captor shoved her foot back down again, fastening the restraint in place before the whole realization hit anyone viewing the video. Her fists, still clenched, pulled hard at the restraints, the one with the swollen, broken finger now jammed under the leather of the restraint.

“Breaking your finger was just a message to get your precious husband's attention. Breaking your foot is my way of paying him back. What I am about to do now is a favour for a friend. A dancer with a dislocated patella, is really no dancer any more.” The man said and stood squarely in front of Anne. Bending down he set his hand on the inside of Anne's left leg and with his bandaged right hand he proceeded to viciously punch the outside edge of her knee. “It's also my payment for your biting me.”

It was indescribable, the reaction from Anne, the sheer agony radiating from her convulsing body couldn't be put in words. The entire chair rocked, nearly tumbling backwards. The cold chuckle from the man as he stepped away from her added to the sadistic cruelty of it all. He stepped alongside of her again, reaching up to stroke the backs of his fingers down her cheek as she vainly screamed through the gag. She began choking as her whole body shuddered from the pain he was inflicting. “There's more to come, my dear. I am far from finished, but first I want to be sure Lestrade gets my message.” He turned towards the camera, his blurred face looming in front of the lens.

“You will meet with me soon. And you'll come without your friends to a location I specify. I'd tell you not to involve the police, but you are one so it's rather pointless. You'll do exactly as I ask and if you're obedient? I'll stop breaking your wife's bones one by one.”

He then walked out of the camera's range, the cold, mechanical chuckle following as he left. The camera stayed on, focused on Anne, her head rolling in agony at her suffering. It became apparent within minutes that she was left utterly alone again.

John had barely emerged from the hospital, two prescription bottles tucked safely in his pocket when his mobile went off. He had barely answered when he heard the urgency in Sherlock's voice and he immediately broke into a run.

It took every bit of his control not to break down the door when he arrived back at the George. He drew in a deep breath though and opened the door slowly. The first thing he noticed was Lestrade's ringtone going off and the fact that he wasn't sitting on the bed any more.

Instead Lestrade was standing in the bathroom doorway, his back and shoulder against one side of the door while his right hand gripped the opposite side of the doorway, bracing himself upright. His other hand he used to wipe at his mouth. His face was grey and the look of distaste on his features said more than words ever could.

“How bad?” John asked, turning away from Lestrade's discomfort and going to the laptop.

“Bad enough,” Lestrade said in a strained voice. He looked almost embarrassed. “I haven't done that since I was a constable,” he managed to rasp out.

John focused intently on the computer screen. “What did he do?” he asked.

Lestrade sucked in air, trying to quell what was happening in his stomach and pushed away from the door frame. He told John what he had seen and the ultimatum that had been issued.

John closed his eyes in despair, seeing that Anne, still on the video feed, had lapsed into helpless tears, stricken with spasms of pain and an occasional round of choking on the gag.

“A day of reckoning is coming...” Lestrade said with a chilling certainty as he lurched towards the bed, rifling his overcoat pocket for his still ringing mobile. He scowled at the sudden number of messages waiting for him and turned the ringtone off.

“I know who the son of a bitch is now.”

 **End Chapter 8**


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

John blinked once then looked sharply at Lestrade. “Who?”

“Sinclair Weston.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“He described the bones...” Lestrade murmured, lost a moment in reflection. “He was describing the bones when I caught him trying to strangle his wife to death. It's all staring me in the face now,” he added with a deep bitterness. “He blames me for rescuing his wife. Poor thing would have been better off dying. He was describing what he was going to do to the hyoid bone in her throat when I pulled him off her. He told me way back then I had no right to stop him. I just chalked it up to the ravings of another criminal.” Lestrade took another deep breath, winced in pain, and clamped his arm down on his side.

“Will you sit, before you fall over?” John ordered, turning from the screen and pulling out the prescription bottles from his pocket. He hesitated, holding the bottles in his hand as Lestrade carefully sat down. The chances, at the moment, of Lestrade keeping either medication down was slim to none. John scowled in dismay and set them on the night stand.

“He said he was going to destroy Anne's knee for a friend,” Lestrade said absently. “That's got to be Grigorovich.” He looked for his mobile. “Gregson texted me the make and model of the car she's hired. Maybe we can find it.” He began scrolling through the messages.

John bit down on a response, turning away from Lestrade to reach over and turn the screen of the laptop away from them both. “If she left the same time as we did, she has a couple of more hours to get here.” He turned to face Lestrade. “It's going to do us no good to do anything more tonight. You need to rest.”

“I _need_ to let the Yard know who's behind all this.” Lestrade looked challengingly at John as he hit a speed-dial and lifted the phone to his ear.

John heaved a sigh, shaking his head, turning away again as Lestrade slipped into a no nonsense business mode on the mobile.

John was doing some serious contemplation when he heard Sherlock approach, realizing he had left the door to their room open. Sherlock stopped for a moment in the doorway, taking in the scene then looked at John. Lestrade was still in full police mode on his mobile and ignored them both.

“It's the doctor isn't it? Sinclair Weston.” Sherlock said with certainty. He stepped inside and shut the door behind him. “Of course it would be, he was a little too clinical in his details of what he was going to do to her.”

“You watched it all? On your mobile?”

“All of it. I assume it's still running on your laptop?”

“Yes, I can't watch the suffering any more and _not_ be able to do anything about it.”

“You'll be gratified to know that there really is little we can do until daylight.” Sherlock said, then more loudly, “I hope you heard that.”

Lestrade shot him a dark scowl. “Mind holding it down?” he said before continuing his conversation with whomever he had on the line.

“What I'd be gratified to know is where the hell she's being kept,” John grumbled.

Sherlock smirked slightly, knowing John would be more than happy to wade into a fight to assuage his moral outrage, especially with a woman involved. He tugged his scarf off, followed by his overcoat and carelessly tossed them on the nearest bed. “Checked a few of the pubs, just to see if anyone was about and they're mostly deserted or closed. There's nothing to be gained there for now.” He pulled out his mobile and then jumped onto the bed, landing prone, crossing his feet, then fluffing the pillows behind his head.

Lestrade brought his calls to a close and promptly stood up, gritting his teeth against the pain and trying not to groan out loud. “Dimmock confirmed that Weston was incarcerated at Full Sutton about a year ago,” he said through clenched teeth at the pain, before he began a slow, pacing.

“Neatly tying Grigorovich and Weston together via the guard,” Sherlock said dryly.

“I can't just _sit_ here,” Lestrade said as he reaching for his coat and gingerly shrugged it on, pointedly ignoring the forbidding look coming from John. “I'm going to go look around, see if anything jogs my memory.” He headed for the door but paused to turn the laptop around again. The video was still running. Anne, with her head hanging, was pulling at the restraint of her left wrist and occasionally flinching from the spasms of pain. He could just hear her gasping for air past the gag. He shot a look of sheer indignation and frustration at Sherlock, as he reached for the door.

John was about to move for his own coat when Lestrade's forbidding gaze froze him to the spot. “And I don't need a babysitter,” he added caustically.

John said nothing, just raising both hands in defeat and sitting back down. He cast a frustrated look at Sherlock, intent on texting a message, as silence descended on the room with Lestrade's departure.

“Don't worry,” Sherlock said suddenly. “I happen to know that Lestrade's been wearing an expandable baton on his belt since yesterday. At Donovan's insistence. He's more than capable of defending himself with it.”

“Tried to nick it, did you?” John said, unable to hide the sarcasm in his voice.

Sherlock's only answer was a maddeningly mysterious smirk on his lips.

John got up, beginning to pace. “I wouldn't be all that concerned if I didn't know what state he's in,” he grumbled.

Sherlock abruptly sat up, swinging his legs to the floor. “Do you recall what I said about Weston not having enough funds to be able to pull off a crime like this? That there had to be someone or something behind all this?”

John paused, looking at him with a frown of thought, “Some, yes.”

“Weston's financial state is non-existant. He has nothing to his name. All his savings and investments were awarded to his wife to provide for her care until she dies. She's been in a comatose state since he tried to kill her. Oxygen deprivation to the brain.”

“Which just underscores the fact that the man is cold-blooded killer,” John replied, still pacing.

“So who would he get the funds from?” Sherlock asked.

John looked at him suspiciously, not answering him.

“Somehow, someone, somewhere, found out that Weston wanted revenge on Lestrade and has been making all the arrangements for Weston to get it.”

“But who? And how? He's been in prison...” John asked.

Sherlock only smirked. “The prison systems in this country have an extensive underground network of communications. Whoever is helping Weston has bought him somehow. I've been taking a look at some of the prisoner death records over the last several years and a number of them bear a marked similarity to how Lestrade was stabbed. Granted Lestrade's was precisely placed so that he lived, but so were these others, only they were stabbed to ensure death. One swift stab to the right location and...” he let his words hang, watching John carefully.

John shot a wary glance at him. “A doctor with a prison shiv, could expertly kill someone and no one would be the wiser until its too late. You aren't suggesting he was bought in prison?”

Sherlock looked at John reprovingly.

“But why?”

“Who better to have than a doctor for a personal prison assassin? Dispatch this person, dispatch that person and I'll give you what you want when you get out. The prisoners who died in this manner, all happened to be at the prisons Weston was incarcerated in. So, Weston gains release. Enter Elena Grigorovich. She wants to get rid of a rival, who just happens to be the wife of a man whom Weston holds a grudge against.”

“And you get a match made in hell,” John replied.

“So a deal is brokered between these two to bring about the present circumstances. What I am interested in knowing is just exactly who set this circumstance up and what was Elena Grigorovich's price?”

“So why not let him know?” John nodded at the door, indicating Lestrade.

“In time, in time,” Sherlock reassured. “Right now, he's got one thing on his mind.” Sherlock nodded at the laptop. He stood up then, reaching for his coat.

“Now what?” John asked.

“I have a fairly good idea just where Anne's being kept. Been looking at the public records on pubs in this area that have been closed for some time. Most places like this would have basements, for storing the kegs, to keep them cool. Just looking up the property listings alone shows that there are about nine in the area for sale. Only two are near the railway tracks.”

“How do you know it's one of these types of places? And why not tell him, for god's sake?” John burst.

“If you can look past Anne in the video? You'll notice that there are several tables and chairs, bar stools and benches, with several large casks and barrels, both wooden and metal. She's being held in the basement of an old pub. We just have to figure out which one.”

“That still leaves the question, why not tell him?” John said stubbornly as Sherlock shrugged his coat on.

“What do you think I am about to do?”

John grabbed his coat, scowling in frustration as Sherlock opened the door to leave, they were gone in seconds, leaving the laptop running.

No one was around to see Anne loosen her left fist, her hand trembling as she forced herself to relax. Trying to assert some control of her shaking, she curled her thumb into her palm then pulled on the restraint again. Ballet dancers had, for years, learned to work around pain every single day. Anne forced herself to concentrate on ignoring it and -despite whimpering at the pain of her broken finger- she managed to slide her left hand under the gap the restraint had left from being closed on her fist.

In a matter of moments, her left hand was free.

*

The bracing cold, and bite of the wind, was enough to drive some of the fogginess from Lestrade's mind as he set off down the narrow Baxtergate road, towards the river. Most of the pubs where located on either side of the Esk and there were more pedestrian's concentrated in the area, the harbour being the local hotspot for tourists and locals alike. At that hour though, there weren't very many people about.

To his surprise, despite the dread and uncertainty of the circumstances he was in, Lestrade actually recalled many of the places from a happier point in time. He was approaching one of the biggest intersections in Whitby which culminated at the junctions of five different streets. It was here, just off Flowergate on Lestrade's left, sat the Golden Lion pub and little way up St. Anne's Staith, sat the Jolly Sailor. Both pubs were finishing their closing for the night. Though the customers had long gone, the employees were trickling out of the pubs heading home for the night. Employees of the fishing related enterprises that made of the core of the community were walking down Pier Street, or across the bridge, to the docks for the start of their very early days.

Traffic was minimal, and the people, some in small groups and others alone, where making their way to their cars or homes or jobs. Lestrade, so long accustomed to scanning crowds, didn't fail to scan these, despite the hour of the night. His habits didn't fail him. As he hung back, trying to blend into the back ground, he spotted a lone man, walking towards the intersection, heading for New Quay Road. His mouth set in a grim line, Lestrade followed, keeping far enough back not to attract attention, and still keep his man in sight. Something about him was ringing the alarms in Lestrade's head.

He trailed him slowly up New Quay, sticking to the darker shadows. To all intents and purposes he was just another local, perhaps slightly drunk for the occasional stagger, heading home for the night. Around the first bend in the road, where one couldn't avoid seeing the tall ship Grand Turk at anchor in her berth, there was a tiny car park on their right to which Lestrade's quarry was headed.

Lestrade's instincts paid off. As the man headed for a car, he was illuminated more clearly under a lamp post. He had a profound black eye, and a marked swelling around his face. With his feral smile confirming his suspicion, Lestrade was looking right at the man whose nose he had broke in his flat not two days previously.

Lestrade actually contemplated taking the man on in his present state, watching his quarry get into the car and starting it, then realizing he really was going too far. With a scowl and helpless to do much of anything, he watched the car pull out. He automatically noted the number plate and make of the car, watching as the car backed up and made its way to the exit before turning right onto New Quay and driving away. “Dammit!” he grumbled, reaching up to stroke his mouth as he thought out other options. Everything was leading to dead ends.

He followed New Quay Road himself, heading for the roundabout at Langbourne and Bagdale and realized he was making a circle back towards the George. He was just in time to see the man take a left onto a street further up, nearer to the station and almost directly behind their hotel, before he lost him completely from sight.

Heaving a sigh of disgust, Lestrade continued walking, the streets becoming more and more deserted as he headed towards Bagdale Road. He was about to turn up Wellington Road, to head for the hotel's entrance, when he spotted John and Sherlock, who noticed him at the same time, turning and heading to meet up with him.

“Fancy meeting you two here,” he growled, a look of disgust on his face.

“It's actually the way we need to go.” Sherlock said, “Windsor Terrace.” He nodded at the street sign and crossed the road, leading the other two. “Windsor Terrace follows the railway, until it forks at Waterstead Lane.”

“I just saw the bloke whose nose I busted in my flat the other night.”

“Hah!” Sherlock barked, setting a fast pace. “I told you those men were from Whitby. He had to be driving or you wouldn't be looking so put out. Which road did he take?”

“What'd'you think?” Lestrade shot back.

“This one?” John asked.

“My theory is going to pan out, you'll both see.” Sherlock said.

“And that theory would be?” Lestrade demanded.

“That Anne is being held in closed down pub,” John replied.

“Property listings show that there are two situated close to the railway. And since there is only one track into Whitby, it shouldn't take us long to locate either property. This road, then Waterstead Lane follow the track. We follow the track to the bend in the river and we find the properties. Better still find the one property nearest the track signal. Anne will be there.”

“You're absolutely certain?” Lestrade asked.

“When am I not?” Sherlock called back over his shoulder.

When he said they would follow the track, neither John or Lestrade realized he meant literally. They walked along Waterstead Lane for some time before the road abruptly made a ninety degree turn away from the track at a holiday resort with several cottages. From there a foot path paralleled the track until it dead ended on the A171. The terrain had became more and more wooded. Before losing sight of the railway altogether, Sherlock turned and headed for the tracks themselves, plunging through the growth, heading down an incline that met up with the track.

John inwardly groaned. “I don't suppose you've recognized anything this far out yet have you?” He asked Lestrade.

Lestrade, shaking his head, had simply clammed up, grim determination on his features as he followed Sherlock through a small copse before the three men reached the rocky bed of the railway track. Here the darkness was diminished a little by the reflection of house lights from the opposite side of the river. Even though his wound was throbbing unmercifully, he doggedly clambered up the rocks, reaching the level bed of the track and following Sherlock as he headed out leaving Whitby proper further and further behind.

*

The first thing Anne did on realizing her hand was free was to tear the blindfold off her eyes. She sat there, blinking and stunned at her little success. She was shaking, holding the blindfold a moment before dropping it and pulling the gag out of her mouth. She looked around, gasping for breath, a little wild eyed with fear as she took in the various items of furniture piled against the walls all around her. Frowning in confusion, she hesitated, listening intently as she began loosening the restraint on her right wrist.

Far off, in another room of the house, she could hear men's voices. Anne's mind raced as she reached down to release the restraint on her feet. She stared at her left knee in horror, it was already swelling and it throbbed relentlessly. She caught herself whimpering in fear as she finished freeing her feet, and bit down on her lip to stop any noise from escaping. Once realizing she was fully free, she looked at her foot. It was also swelling with a tell tale, dark, ugly blue bruise forming deep under the skin. A glance at her hand revealed the same type of bruise.

Confusion washed over her as she stared at her hand. Why was this happening, who was this person and why did he think her husband had to be punished? Anne shook her head, trying to control the wild beating of her heart from the fear and looked around again. Sucking in a deep breath of air, she grabbed the arm rest of the chair and tried to stand up. She sat back down abruptly, trying not to cry out. Her leg wasn't going to support her. Shifting forward on the chair, perching on its edge, she got her right leg under her and levered herself up, wobbling badly, but after a moment she maintained her balance and awkwardly experimented trying to put weight on her left leg.

Her knee betrayed her and she toppled forward, catching herself against a pair of tables, one inverted on top of the other which were stacked before her. Trembling in fear, convinced someone would hear her and come looking, Anne searched the dark spaces, under tables, under benches, behind casks, anywhere that would afford her a hiding place.

Lestrade's words seemed to run continually through her mind, 'No matter what happens, you fight. You fight until you can't fight any more. And escape if you can, even if it gets you killed. I'd rather find you dead, then never find you at all.'

Holding herself up with the tables, she turned to look at the chair behind her. Shifting her weight again, Anne stretched out her hand to snag the chair and pulled it closer to her. Using it and other pieces of furniture she managed to hobble her way to the window. She paused, staring at the dingy panes into the pitch darkness outside and listened for any sound of approaching voices.

The volume of the voices had risen, and she could hear a man beginning to argue with someone, a woman? Anne frowned. She had no idea where she was, how long she'd been gone, what time it was, where Greg was at, but she knew she was being held by two, or maybe three, men. She didn't recall any women being around. Shaking her head in dismay, Anne's memories were foggy and distorted, she couldn't even recall how she ended up in the dingy, furniture clogged, basement that seemed vaguely familiar in a deja vú sort of way.

With the voices getting louder, her tenuous control of her panic wavered. Convinced they were on their way to the room, Anne reached up, trying to move the latch of the window, only to find it stubbornly jammed from years of neglect. Panting in fright, she searched her immediate area frantically, her pulse hammering in her ears. Not finding what she needed, Anne moved to the right, wedging herself against a pew-like bench, biting her lip to keep the whimpers of pain from escaping, as she pulled the chair over to her.

Moved with urgency, she twisted, grabbing the chair by the armrests. Taking a deep breath, she threw it as hard as she could at the window. Her balance shifted as she did, bringing weight down on her injured leg. Simultaneously the window broke while she cried out, as she threw herself down away from the flying bits off glass.

The pain shooting through her foot and leg as she connected with the floor was enough to cause her black out.

*

Anyone having followed an actual rail line knew it wasn't all that easy to follow. Unless you could balance on the iron rail itself, the rocks making up the track bed and the railway ties created just enough of an uneven terrain to make a prolonged walk strenuous. It wasn't very long before Lestrade began to lag. Even John was beginning to feel the strain.

“There's the first one...” Sherlock said indicating a large darkened building looming up on their right, away from the river. He immediately plunged into the undergrowth heading for the building. John, by now actually panting with the exertion, came to a stop, bending at the waist, with his hands on his knees. He was reasonably fit, his military stint not having worn off, despite his war wounds. Keeping up with Sherlock on a lead, sometimes, turned out to be an arduous endurance test.

“Greg?” John asked, pushing himself upright. There was no response and John turned around.

Several yards behind him, Lestrade had fallen to one knee, his hand clamped hard to his side and was struggling to stand back up again. He was gasping for breath, the steam of which was hanging in the chilly air. A moment later he felt John grip his elbow, giving him a hand back up.

“This is getting ridiculous,” John said to him.

Lestrade nodded, casting a grateful glance in his direction before managing to gasp out, “You aren't kidding.” Neither one moved, just allowing Lestrade time to catch his breath and try to gain some control over the pain.

“Where'd he go?” Lestrade finally asked.

John pointed in the direction of the abandoned building off to the side of the track. “Checking that place out.”

Lestrade, bending again, bracing himself with his hand on his knee, shook his head. “That's not the place. Don't recognize it at all. Besides, there's no track signal.” They heard a rustling in the bushes and seconds later Sherlock emerged, rejoining them on the track.

“She's at the other one,” he said confidently. “This place has been deserted for some time.” He instantly began setting the pace again. John was about to protest when Lestrade straightened up again, his face showing the strain of pain and fatigue.

“Just follow him, I'll catch up.”

“Absolutely not,” John replied. “We'll follow him at a slower pace.”

Lestrade didn't argue and together, in silence, they set off after Sherlock.

The track evened out for a short space, still hugging the edge of the river Esk, before it began to make a long slow curve to the right. More trees and undergrowth appeared, now on both sides of the river as a small spit of land had formed at the river's bend. The two men trailed fairly far behind Sherlock, almost lost in the dark up ahead of them. As they came further around the bend, a high bridge loomed up in the darkness, devoid of any traffic and Lestrade paused, needing the respite and looked at the bridge a moment with a frown.

“What is it?” John asked.

“That bridge...” Lestrade said. “I recognize it, its a footpath.” He got his bearings, trying not to double over and nodded at the copse of trees to their right. “Just up past these trees is a sports complex. Further up the ridge.”

“You're sure?” John asked. Lestrade nodded.

“Anne and I walked the path.” He straightened again, seeing Sherlock pause at the base of the bridge, turning to look back at them.

When they finally reached him he was standing next to a track signal mounted on its own pole next to the base of the bridge pillar and was eerily illuminated by the green light it cast. Lestrade was looking at him with certainty in his pain filled eyes.

“Anne and I took this footpath,” he said, turning to face away from the signal light. He looked off into the copse where all three men could see a very dim glow of a light from a window. “We stopped at a pub for tea. The staff found out we were on our honeymoon and they were very keen to serve us. Ended up showing us all around the place.”

Lestrade turned a moment, looking out over the river at the light of a single residence on the other side of the river. He turned back to look at the dim light. “Anne is in that room,” he said flatly and started to head off into the thicket.

Sherlock reached out and grabbed his shoulder. “Wait!” he hissed. “Regain some of your breath first, let me go and check out the surroundings. I'll be right back!” Without another word he plunged into the bushes and vanished.

Lestrade couldn't very well argue. Even he realized he wasn't exactly in any shape to just barge in to rescue his wife.

“We'll figure out something,” John said, watching the window in question. Lestrade just nodded, reaching up to place a hand on the pillar as he panted for breath. The seconds seemed to turn into minutes which then seemed to turn into hours as the two men waited. Lestrade had gained his breath back, though the pounding in his side did little to abate. He was slowly standing up straight when a sound caught their ears that galvanized both men into instant action.

The window they were watching suddenly shattered.

 **End Chapter 9**


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

Anne was out only for a moment and awoke shaking her head in bleary-eyed confusion before she realized she had fallen behind several chairs. Hearing the voices change, she bit her lip hard against the pain and pulled herself forward with her arms, dragging her bad leg after her, aiming for the dark, empty spaces under the chairs and benches.

Feeling much like a wounded animal trying to crawl into a den for protection, Anne wedged herself as far under the benches as she could, hearing the urgency in the voices as they neared the room. Moments later she came up against cold stone, finding her way blocked and she twisted putting her back against the wall. She could see the dim light cast into the room from under all the benches she was huddled under. A whimper of fright escaped her lips and she stuffed her fist into her mouth, pulling herself tighter into the space and cringing in terror.

The door to the room abruptly burst open and a cacophony of voices exploded at once.

“What the hell?” A man's voice exploded.

“How did she get loose?” Another man's voice demanded.

“How'd she get out the damn window?”

“It doesn't matter,” a more authoritarian voice announced. “She's not here now. Find her. She can't have gotten far. Search the grounds.”

There was the sound of scrambling as people emptied out of the room. Only two people remained.

“And this is what you call being in control?” A woman's European accented voice asked. “You assured me that you had her restrained.”

“I am still perfectly in control,” The man said. “The primary metatarsal of her foot is broken and I dislocated the patella on her left knee, she can't have gotten very far at all.”

The woman scoffed. “You fool! She's a dancer, she lives in pain every single day. She's been doing double the work needed to keep up with my own position for several years now. Her pain tolerance is high. You compartmentalize the pain, use it to fuel your performance. She's escaped and now both of us are at risk!”

“We wouldn't be at risk at all if you hadn't just shown up.” The man snapped. “The only reason your here is to gloat.”

“And why shouldn't I? I've waited for this for a long time. She's been a thorn in my side for ten years. She should never have been hired for the company to begin with. They just wanted to make their exchange program look good.”

“Aren't you a product of that exchange program?” The man's voice mocked. “I don't care a whit about what you want with her. I want my revenge on Lestrade, and I'll have it.”

“You can do whatever you like to him. It matters nothing at all to me. I just want her out of my way. And now she's escaped!”

“That's exactly what I was working on when you interrupted! You aren't even supposed to know about this location, much less be in it.”

“I was assured that she would be taken care of. I'll not have her taking my spot in the company, now or ever. I was _promised_ this. I want to see that promise fulfilled. I want to see for myself that she will be permanently removed from the company!”

“Well, you only just missed my destroying the patella.” The man mocked. “I was about to work on the metatarsals of her other foot when you insisted on interrupting things and arriving for no good reason. I've been filming it all, see? So that _you_ could see the promise fulfilled. There was _nothing_ mentioned about you being here in person to witness her destruction.”

“I was promised this and now she is gone! What have you to say to that? You heard the warnings. You know what can happen if you don't deliver on your end. You said you were in control, but this certainly doesn't look like your being in control to me. You're own, _injured_ , prisoner has escaped. That can be regarded as incompetency and you know how much that isn't tolerated.”

“And what would you know about incompetency? I happen to know that you haven't had to pay yet for what you were _promised_. I, on the other hand, have been fulfilling my obligations in a most competent manner for several years now. And I foresee myself fulfilling even more for years to come. You on the other hand have made a grave mistake by just showing up here, all to satisfy your petty little jealousy! Don't think for a moment this is going to pass unnoticed.”

“And what is that supposed to mean? Some sort of threat?”

“I don't make threats, Miss Grigorovich.” The man said calmly. “I only report facts. And one fact that will be reported is that you showed up here to witness something that is none of your business and that witnesses cannot be tolerated!”

Elena laughed. “And who is bantering on about facts? I show up and your prisoner has escaped! How do you think Moriarty is going to react to that?”

At the mention of the name silence descended on the room. Several seconds ticked by.

“You little fool,” The man said in a low sibilant voice. “You've just sealed your own death warrant, with your own lips.”

“What? What are you doing? Let go of me!”

*

Already shivering in fear at hearing the voice of the man who had been torturing her, Anne held her breath, willing herself not to move, praying fervently she wouldn't be heard. She bit down hard on her fingers to keep any noise from escaping her lips.

Hearing Elena's Ukrainian accent and the revelation of her participation in events, coupled with the sounds of an uproar going on outside the window, drove Anne beyond all reason. Her shocked senses barely registered sound as a new commotion began to erupt around her. She never even realized she was biting down so hard on her fingers that she was drawing blood.

The sounds of Elena's struggling reached Anne's ears followed by the sounds of sudden pain. She could hear the velcro of the restraints that had held her being ripped open and Elena's protestations of being lashed to the chair. Then came the unmistakeable sounds of gasping for breath.

“Mentioning that name gets you one sentence.” The man's voice said over the struggling of the woman. “And you said it to his own hired assassin. There is no appeal for dropping his name so flagrantly and so loosely. Instead of breaking the hyoid bone in Anne Lestrade's lovely little throat, I will break yours for violating that name, instead!”

A sick, horrifying gurgling sound grew louder and became more pronounced as the struggling, at first furious, began to subside. In moments silence descended on the room, then Anne heard the man moving around followed closely by the sound of one of the benches being slid away from its place...

*

Outside, in the dark, John, followed closely by Lestrade, broke through the brush at the far edge of the grass, running for what they were worth towards the dim light of the basement window. It was brighter now, with the glass being broken out of it and as they neared it they were met by three men who had dashed outside to search for their prisoner.

Voices erupted around them, as Lestrade fleetingly caught a glance of Weston inside the basement, eerily repeating the very scene Lestrade himself had witnessed years earlier of the man trying to strangle his wife to death. Only now Weston was trying to strangle Lestrade's own wife.

“Weston! No!” He heard himself roaring before abruptly coming face to face with the man who's nose he had broken.

A smile of pure malevolence crossed the man's battered face as he reached up with his hands to grab Lestrade by the lapels.

Lestrade's reaction was instantaneous. His right hand flashed to his hip then flicked to his right. What looked like a 13cm, rubber-coated, rod in his hand suddenly expanded into a 53cm steel baton. The unmistakeable metallic snick of the weapon snapping in to place was clearly heard by all around.

That feral smile, made worse by the sheer intensity of anger in his dark eyes, flashed across Lestrade's face as he swung the baton under the man's wrists, who was still gripping his lapels. Lestrade flicked the baton across the top of the man's hands laying it on the backs of his wrists. Reaching across with his left hand Lestrade grabbed the middle of the baton, his own arms now crossed and effectively trapping the man's hands. Before the man could even realize he was trapped, Lestrade was backing up, dragging the man with him causing him to lose his balance. The assailant stumbled to his knees and before Lestrade could let go of the baton, John's fist came out of nowhere, cold-cocking his attacker. He collapsed to the ground in a heap, unconscious before he even hit the ground.

There was no time for thanks as the other two assailants split their forces, attacking both of them at the same time.

Lestrade spun around, gasping at the pain in his side and was just barely cognizant of the next man coming at him with a knife in his hand. Realizing he was in too close to the man for any means of controlling the fight, Lestrade flashed his left arm up, barely blocking the knife in the man's right hand. Still, he swung the baton down in an overhand arc to his left, connecting with a bone breaking crunch just inside the man's elbow. The assailant howled, abruptly letting go of the knife, while Lestrade stepped in towards him, trapping his leg. Lestrade whipped the baton right, catching the inside of the man's left knee. When the man began to sag, Lestrade followed though on the arc of his swing by bringing the baton up and around the man's neck. He reached over, grabbing the steel rod with his left hand, trapping the man's neck and viciously swung him around to the right.

Together both men fell to the ground. Lestrade landing hard on the man's back.

A blinding flash of pain nearly caused Lestrade to black out as he tried to roll away from his attacker. He levered himself up onto his hands and knees, gripping the baton in his hand when he barely became aware of John stepping in, aiming a vicious kick into the man's ribs and knocking him over onto his back. John was on the man like a cat, one knee planted in the man's chest as he grabbed the man's shirt. He delivered a solid punch to his face, followed closely by another until the man collapsed under him.

Lestrade wasn't aware that John had already dispatched the third man as his eyes were drawn to the window where Weston was just letting go of the woman he had strangled.

“No!” Lestrade roared again, trying to push himself up, every intent being to literally dive through the window.

“Greg! No!” John shouted, grabbing Lestrade's arm and hauling him to his feet. “You'll never fit. Come on!” John began running around the building. Staggering, still gripping the baton, Lestrade took off after him.

*

In the basement, Weston was pulling one of the benches away from the others when he heard the sound of someone coming down the stairs. He turned, expecting to see one his men when he got sight of a much taller man, dressed in a long dark overcoat and a scarf. He had a shock of black, wavy hair and his hands were casually resting in his trouser pockets.

“So...” the stranger said, his light blue eyes scanning the scene before him, taking in Elena's slumped figure in the chair staring with sightless eyes at nothing. He took in the camera stand with the camera still rolling, the crowded furniture, broken glass, the open window and the sound of men running. Then there was Weston himself pulling a bench seat away from all the others. He shot Weston a pleasant smile. “So,” he repeated, “what happens to me when I mention Moriarty's name? Oops. Just dropped it there!”

Weston stood up straight, facing Sherlock. “I know who you are...” he said slowly. “You aren't even worthy of letting that name pass your lips.” The flick knife was out, and engaged, faster than either man could blink.

Sherlock, standing just inside the basement, didn't take another step further. “Let me guess...” he purred. “You were warned about me and you've seen the website, else you wouldn't have posted that on it.” He nodded his head at the camera.

“You seem to know all the answers. You obviously know what my answer would be to your question.”

“Ah, so tedious,” Sherlock murmured, shaking his head in despair. “Let me guess?” he twisted suddenly, pulling his overcoat and jacket aside to reveal his hip. He poked a long finger into his side.

Looking curiously at Weston he said, “You'll stab me just here, under the fifth rib I believe? How ecclesiastical. One strike and I'm dead. Unlike Lestrade, whom you wanted alive. I've read the prison death files. Figured out all the ones you've dispatched over the years. Our dear friend Moriarty got to you early and had a perfect little cold hearted subject to work with. Kill this one and I'll give you Lestrade. Kill that one and I'll give you Lestrade. How wonderfully ironic that he'd groomed a former doctor to be a perfect little prison killing machine.” Sherlock dropped his coat back into place and turned to face Weston.

“You don't deserve to speak his name much less call him a friend,” Weston hissed.

Sherlock faked a bored yawn. “Tedious,” he droned, “And rather yawn worthy too, watching you torment an innocent woman when your anger is really directed at the husband whom you're too afraid to take on yourself.” He sighed dramatically, looking at the ceiling in thought before fixing his gaze back on Weston.

“Why take your anger out on someone who's own standards, physically and mentally, are infinitely bigger than yours when you can take your anger out on someone who is much smaller, and weaker, than you? Good reason, I think, for why you killed all those women years ago. You can't take on a man on his own, so you take it out on a woman. Same goes with all those men you killed in prison. You knifed them when they had no opportunity to fight back. That just smack's of cowardice to me, don't you think? You're as readable as a children's primer.” Sherlock sighed, looking at Weston pityingly. “And that makes you infinitely more boring as well.”

“ God forbid I should bore you, Sherlock Holmes.” Weston replied, his fingers working restlessly on the handle of the knife he held. “Perhaps this might _entertain_ you?” Weston suddenly lunged forward, coming around with the knife.

Sherlock swung his left arm down quickly, stepping forward to meet Weston's swing. Catching the inside of Weston's elbow against his left forearm, Sherlock turned around, stepping backwards towards Weston. As he turned, he also turned his left arm, catching Weston's arm in the crook of his elbow, at the same time wrapping his right arm around Weston's arm and grabbing his wrist. He then slammed Weston's hand against his knee, pinching at a nerve at the base of his thumb as he tried to disarm him. Weston cried out, dropping the knife, and tried to push Sherlock away from him.

Kicking the knife away, Sherlock let him push, letting go of Weston's arm and spinning back around to face him. Waving a hand negligently, he heaved a sigh of disappointment, straightening up and rearranging his overcoat. “Like I said, boring!”

Weston's face was marred by an ugly scowl as he lunged at Sherlock again. Sherlock just stepped to one side, almost lazily, catching Weston's wrist with his right hand as he came past him, turning in towards his opponent, Sherlock wrapped his left around Weston's arm, pulling his forward and kicked the back of Weston's knee before pushing him down. Weston was on the ground in seconds, Sherlock's own knee driving him down, digging into the small of his back as he twisted Weston's arm up around behind his back. Holding his arm in place, his knee pinning Weston to the basement floor, Sherlock reached up to Weston's neck, where he found a primary nerve ending and began relentlessly driving his thumb into it, grinding down hard as he grit his teeth.

“What do you know of Moriarty?” he demanded as Weston squirmed in agony under him.

“You'll never know!” Weston managed to gasp over his increasing cries of pain.

“Oh you'll tell _me_ , one way or another...” Sherlock growled, jerking harder on Weston's arm and driving his thumb in even more.

Weston began to scream in sheer agony.

*

Somehow in the rush to get inside the pub, Lestrade had cut corners and had overtaken John. He was first through the door, slamming it open with his shoulder, barely catching himself from falling as he searched for the entry to the basement. He slapped his hand against the door, pushing himself away and stumbled forward. An ear piercing shriek of unimaginable pain led Lestrade in the right direction and he was down the stairs in a flash when the screaming abruptly stopped.

Bursting into the room, he caught a brief glimpse of a woman sprawled unnaturally in the chair before he became aware of Sherlock standing up straight. Lestrade was moving fast stepping towards Sherlock, not noticing Weston on the ground. Swinging his right hand under Sherlock's arm he brought the baton up around Sherlock's shoulder, grabbing Sherlock's wrist in his left hand and twisting it, hard. With the baton's extended reach, he twisted it around, ramming the length of it across Sherlock's neck before jamming it up under his chin, forcing Sherlock to tip his head back with an awkward squawk of protest.

“Lestrade!” he gasped, trying to reach up and grab the baton as Lestrade bore down on his neck and arm trying to force him backwards onto the floor. The look of sheer fury in Lestrade's dark eyes was enough to unsettle most people. Sherlock however, tried to push back, his voice rising to a squeak as Lestrade added more pressure on his throat to bring him down. The two men, nearly evenly matched in strength and height, struggled for moment until John stepped in.

He reached up and grabbed the end of the steel baton, pulling it away from Sherlock's throat. “Greg!” he snapped, practically in Lestrade's ear, “Greg, for god's sake, it's Sherlock!” For a moment, John seriously contemplated jabbing his elbow into Lestrade's wound to get him to release the baton before Sherlock managed to squeak out.

“It's not Anne, Lestrade, look! It's not Anne!”

For a split second, Sherlock caught the sight of uncertainty in Lestrade's dark eyes as his gaze flicked over to the woman in the chair before he realised who it was he was trying to bring down. Lestrade abruptly let go, causing Sherlock to stagger backwards as Lestrade dropped his arms, looking around a moment in confusion before he dragged a hand through his hair. John reached over and neatly disarmed him of the baton, reaching down to strike it against the floor of the basement, disengaging its locks, before he slapped it back to its 13cm size.

Saying nothing, John handed it back over to Lestrade as he stepped past both men, reaching up to rest his fingers on Elena Grigorvoch's throat, while slipping his hand, almost tenderly, under her head. He had a look of appalled horror on his face.

Coughing a moment, Sherlock stood up straight, shaking his coat back into place. “It's Elena Grigorovich, Lestrade. Not Anne.” His voice was unnaturally high and he reached up to rub his throat, jerking his head slightly as if popping his neck.

Lestrade, breathing hard and fighting a spasm of pain as the adrenalin began to wear off, looked over at John and Elena. John heaved a sigh, a look of sadness on his features. He glanced at Lestrade. “She's gone,” he said quietly as he gently let her head settle back down to the position it had been in. “If we'd only been a few minutes earlier...” He was sorely tempted to reach up to close her eyes, but knew he couldn't.

Lestrade shook his head, looking down at Weston, unconscious at his feet before looking back at Sherlock, who was still rubbing his throat. “What'd I tell you about getting on my bad side with a baton in my hands?” he growled at him.

“That it wasn't such a good idea...” Sherlock squeaked, still rubbing his throat, “I think we have a more important matter to attend to then my forgetting a few etiquette lessons.”

“Which is?” John asked, looking between Lestrade and Sherlock with a uncertainty. What other time had Lestrade got the better of Sherlock?

“Anne,” Sherlock said simply and nodded at the far wall.

Lestrade looked at him puzzled for a moment.

“Think, man!” Sherlock admonished, his voice returning to normal. “She didn't have time, much less the ability, to get out of that window. Where else could she be?”

John blinked once, dawning realization hitting him as he quickly dropped to one knee and glanced under all the benches.

“Even Weston figured that out, that's why he was trying to move these,” Sherlock said waving a hand at the benches and moving over to grab one end.

John stood back up, nodding at Lestrade with a relieved smile on his face, as he grabbed the other end of the bench.

“I would suggest we get her out of here before he wakes up,” Sherlock said as he and John pulled the bench away. He nodded at Weston as they moved over and grabbed another bench. “He's going to wake up screaming.”

Lestrade, running his hand down his side, grimacing in pain, at first didn't realize he was holding his breath, as John and Sherlock pulled another bench away. It was then that a whimper reached all their ears as the two men reached over to grab a third bench. It was followed by distraught denial.

“No, no, no, no, no, no, no...”

“Anne?” Lestrade called out, dropping to his knee and trying to look under the benches. He barely caught sight of her, wedged up against the wall under the last pew-like bench. “Anne?”

As Sherlock and John grabbed the fourth bench to move it, Anne's panic began to bubble over. Moving the bench out revealed her under the fifth one. She began to cry out, her voice rising in hysteria.

That was until Lestrade's own, anxiety driven voice snapped out, “Anne? It's me!”

Slipping into the space Sherlock and John were creating, Lestrade reached out in time to catch Anne's wrists as she prepared to fight for what she was worth. “Anne!” He admonished, holding her wrists apart, looking at her battered face, the fresh blood on her lips and hands. “Sweetheart? It's me,” he repeated, imploring.

She looked at him, shivering in fright and overwhelming emotions. “Greg?” she asked, blinking in confusion, nearly blinded by the sudden exposure to light.

Lestrade dropped to both knees before her in the newly opened space. Tugging gently, he pulled her out from under the bench. “Come on...” he coaxed. He let go of her wrists, reaching down to cup her arms, pulling her upright. She was looking at him in disbelief.

“Greg?” She asked again reaching up to grip his arms. Her chin began quivering, tears beginning to well in her eyes.

Lestrade's shoulders drooped in relief, and he flashed a deeply relieved, lopsided smile at her, “It's me, Anne,” he said softly. “It's me, I'm right here,” he said and he pulled her to him, wrapping his arms around her at last.

 **End Chapter 10**


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

Overcome, Anne began to weep as Lestrade cradled her head to his shoulder, burying his face in her neck. He was only vaguely aware of John stepping past them, crouching by their side, until John reached up and rested a hand on his shoulder.

“Greg,” he said softly, shrugging out of his coat. “We should get her out of here.”

Lestrade shot a dark look his way, still holding Anne, then he nodded.

“C'mon, love...” he murmured in her ear, pulling Anne away, reaching down to cup her wrists as she reflexively clutched his shirt. There was a flash of terror across her face. “It's okay,” he quickly reassured, “we just need to get out of here. All right?” His familiar authority returned to his voice. He searched her face waiting until he got a nod in response.

John settled his coat around Anne's shoulders and stood up. “Bring her upstairs, I'll get Emergency services on their way,” he said, pulling out his mobile.

Lestrade suddenly found it a little difficult to get up, much less bring Anne with him.

“Allow me,” Sherlock suddenly murmured, standing next to him. Lestrade blinked in surprise as he grabbed hold of the back of one of the benches and pulled himself up with a groan of pain.

Anne, still on the floor, looked at Lestrade in confusion before Sherlock took his place, dropping to one knee before her. She was still struggling with the weeping, trying to regain some control of her emotions. Silently Sherlock handed John's jacket to Lestrade.

“It's all right, Anne,” Sherlock said reassuringly. Almost by magic a clean white handkerchief appeared in his hand. He took her wrist gently in his hand. “Here you go. It's all right. Put your arm around my neck,” he said firmly, taking her arm and laying it over his shoulders. Wrapping one arm around her, he slipped his other arm under her knees and in one smooth move effortlessly picked her up off the floor. She grabbed at his coat and shoulder, gasping at the sudden pain and looked around in bewilderment.

“Sherlock?” she asked in confusion, looking at her husband.

“Who else?” Sherlock said to her as he shot Lestrade a warning look, nodding at the chair in the room.

Catching the warning, Lestrade moved to block Anne's view of Elena in the chair as Sherlock twisted slightly to follow John up the stairs. Lestrade trailed behind, grabbing the railing, grimacing in pain, while clamping his arm down on his side.

“What are you...?” Anne started to ask Sherlock before she realized something was wrong with her husband. “Greg?”

“I'm all right,” he said, following them up the stairs more slowly.

“For someone whose been stabbed,” Sherlock replied dryly.

Anne looked back at Lestrade in alarm. “Stabbed?”

“Thanks, pal,” Lestrade growled at Sherlock's back not seeing him smirk as he emerged on the ground floor level. “I'm all right, Anne.”

“Stabbed?” she asked again, tears welling in her eyes. “When?”

“The other night, when this all started,” Lestrade said. It nearly tore his heart out again as he watched the tears rolling down her bruised and battered face. Only this time they were tears for him.

Looking around inside the deserted pub, Sherlock was about to set Anne down when he caught sight of John standing on the front step. He made his way outside and settled Anne down on the step. Sherlock stood back, letting Lestrade drape John's coat back around her shoulders, before Lestrade shrugged out of his own coat, adding it to John's. He turned away as Lestrade dropped down on the step next to his wife, pulling her close in the circle of his arms adding his own warmth to the coats wrapped around her. He heaved an enormous sigh of relief.

To their mutual surprise, the sky was lightening and a bare strip of pink could be seen on the eastern horizon.

Feeling Anne shiver, Lestrade looked at her, seeing she was still struggling not to weep. “It's all right love,” he murmured, kissing the top of her forehead. “Let it out.”

“I'm so sorry,” she murmured, clutching the handkerchief.

“Whatever for?” Lestrade asked, genuinely puzzled.

Anne was a picture of misery as she struggled with her tears, “I tried to fight, I tried to get away. I couldn't!”

“Looks like you did a pretty good job to me,” he said then winced when her arm connected with his wounded side.

“Oh, Greg!” She looked at him apologetically, fresh tears springing up. He shook his head quickly, gingerly pulling her arm away as he heard John concluding his initial call. “It's all right, I'm fine, just sore. You're the one I'm concerned about.” He lifted her chin, searching her battered face, unconsciously reaching up and wiping at a dab of blood on her chin with his thumb. He could almost see the jumble of confused thoughts in her blue eyes.

“I'm sorry,” she murmured again, reaching up to touch his cheek reaffirming that he really was sitting next to her.

“Darling, what for?” he asked, pained at the look of sorrow coming across her face.

“For doubting you. You've been right all along, Elena...” Anne choked suddenly, struggling not to cry. “Elena...” she tried again and Lestrade could see the betrayal and the horror of the past few hours replaying in her eyes. She couldn't go on.

He shushed her then, holding her close, resting his chin gently on top of her head.

“Greg?” John was by their sides again. “Paramedics are on their way. There's been quite a bit of trauma. Let me start checking her over?”

Lestrade nodded, as John got Anne's attention. “Do you remember me? I met you the other night?”

Anne, shivering in reaction, looked at John befuddled.

“This is John, Anne.” Lestrade said. “You met him the other night, before all of this...” Lestrade paused and shook his head in dismay before he continued. “Before all of this happened. You can trust him, he's a doctor.” Lestrade suddenly smirked. “And a damned good one at that.”

John reached out, slipping his fingers under Anne's wrist and smiled, gently settling his other on top of her hand as she tried to pull away. “A very good one,” he said confidently. “It's all right, Anne. I'm just want to see what's wrong with your hand and check your pulse, all right?”

Before she could even reply he was examining the bite marks on her knuckles, then gently turned her hand to check the state of her swollen and broken finger.

“Greg, who was _he_...?” she asked Lestrade softly, watching John check her hand, before he flipped his wrist up to look at his watch, settling his fingers on her pulse.

“No one for you to worry about,” Lestrade reassured. “He won't hurt you ever again,” he added, with promise.

“How are you feeling?” John asked her. “Dizzy at all? Nauseous? Any ringing in your ears?” She was shaking her head gently as he studied her bruised and blackened eye and the slight swelling around it. He could see where her lip had been split and where she had bitten it.

“You bit yourself,” he said with a kind smile.

“I didn't want to be heard,” Anne hesitated, feeling a wave of confusion wash over her. “I didn't want to get caught.” She blinked. “Everything's confused, my head is pounding and I'm so tired,” her voice became plaintive as she gazed up at Lestrade puzzled. Clutching the coats with her good hand she added, “It's cold.”

“We'll get you some place warm soon enough. Let's take a look at that knee shall we?” John said moving down, and very carefully slipping a hand under her knee. She instantly tensed letting out a gasp of pain. John looked at her in concern. “How's that knee?”

“I can't bend it. He, um, he hit it. I don't know with what but he hit it. I couldn't see.” She gripped at Lestrade's arms as John very carefully set his hand on her knee.

“Relax,” Lestrade said softly into her ear. “He's not going to hurt you.”

“Anne,” John said, “You can trust me, I'm a doctor. And I'm not going to lie, this might hurt. I need to feel around your knee, to see what state its in, all right?” John waited until she met his concerned gaze again.

With a look of uncertainty on her battered face, she nodded her consent.

She jerked abruptly, gasping out in pain as he felt around her knee. Lestrade, watching John like a hawk, had to admit he had an excellent poker face as he gently probed. He smiled at Anne apologetically.

“Sorry about that, I know it must be painful, let's check that foot as well, okay?” He moved down her leg then gently lifted her foot. He asked her a few times where she felt the pain as he tried to flex her ankle, then her toes. She nearly jumped out of her skin again as John apologized.

“All right, it's all right,” he reassured, setting her foot back down. He shifted position and settled his hand gently back on her knee. Catching Lestrade's eye he leaned forward and whispered in his ear, “Distract her.”

Lestrade looked intensely at John's very serious face then he looked down at Anne. Lifting her chin he looked her in the eyes and said, “I had to call your mum.”

“ _What?_ ” She gasped in horror staring a moment at Lestrade before glancing nervously at John.

Lestrade tugged gently at her chin, forcing her to look up at him. Holding his hand out for emphasis he said, “If you thought she didn't like me before, I can _guarantee_ she _hates_ me now.”

Anne could only stare at him in shock.

Out of his peripheral vision Lestrade saw John set one hand on the outside of Anne's knee and suddenly shift her kneecap with the other. Anne's entire body jerked unnaturally in his arms as Lestrade watched the blood literally drain from Anne's face. Her mouth dropped in an 'o' of pain as she gasped inwardly before she remembered to breathe. She literally sagged, wide-eyed into Lestrade's chest before her eyes began to roll into the back of her head at the pain.

“Don't let her pass out!” John said firmly, feeling the knee again. He smiled reassurance at Lestrade as he caught Anne's chin in his hand forcing her to look up at him.

“Stay with me, Anne!” Lestrade said urgently, “He's just set your knee back into place.” She had his arms in a vice grip, whimpering at the pain before she cast a wary look towards John.

“The patella was just resting this side of your knee. Right on the edge, so to speak. If you knew what I was about to do, your muscles would have tensed and I wouldn't have been able to put your knee back into place so easily. Better to set it now than to have to endure that kind of pain later, especially when you know it's coming, right?” He looked at her with what Lestrade would forever swear was his puppy-eyed look.

Anne could only shiver in response, looking positively grey at the pain still washing over her.

“Stay awake, Anne.” John said. “You've been doing great all this time. Don't go fainting on us like a girl now, okay?” He smiled at her.

Somehow he actually got a smile onto her lips with his remark.

“It'll take,” she stammered through suddenly chattering teeth. The terror she had been in was subsiding and the adrenalin coursing through her veins was wearing off. “It'll take more than that to get me to pass out.”

“Atta girl!” John said.

“What about Elena?” Anne suddenly asked, looking back at Lestrade. “Is she?”

Lestrade nodded at her. “She's dead,” he said gently.

Anne frowned as the memories played back. “I heard him, I heard him kill her. I was under the benches. I heard...” she shivered again. “She said something to him, to set him off.” She looked imploringly at Lestrade. “She mentioned someone's name.”

“What name would that be?” Sherlock suddenly asked. He had crouched behind them, and was now looking intently at Anne, fixing her with his blue eyes.

Anne looked at Sherlock baffled. “Sherlock? Is that really you?” She asked. Then she looked at Lestrade. “Has he been with you all this time?”

“Well, more like the other way around. I've been with him all this time.” Lestrade replied ruefully. “Felt like an eternity too...”

Sherlock barely refrained from rolling his eyes as John looked at him in consternation. “Anne, what name did Elena mention before Weston strangled her?” He pressed.

Anne paused, looking uncertainly at Sherlock. She glanced at her husband again. “Moriarty,” she said. “Who is Moriarty?”

“Ahhh...” Sherlock sighed in satisfaction, rubbing his hands together. “You've confirmed it for me.”

Lestrade suddenly twisted around, tightening his grip on Anne as he locked gazes with Sherlock. “What the _hell_ do you know about Moriarty?” he demanded, his no-nonsense DI voice coming back into full, intimidating force.

Sherlock blinked in surprise for a split second before looking back at Lestrade. “What do you know about it?” He shot back.

“I asked first!” Lestrade snapped, his own gaze intense. He felt Anne squirm and he glanced down at her. She was reaching up to rub at her neck, wincing as she did.

“Boys, please...” Anne implored as she shivered, her teeth chattering again.

“Anne? Is something wrong with your neck?” John asked, moving to check her over.

“It's sore,” she admitted.

John flashed a sympathetic smile at her, “Considering the thrashing you got, I wouldn't be surprised. Are you still cold?”

“How do you know about getting thrashed?” She asked, frowning.

“Your face is a bit battered, love,” Lestrade said, neatly evading revealing anything about the video's they had seen. He tried to wrap the coats around her more.

Her emotions still close to the surface, there were tears in her eyes again, as she recalled the horror. “He, he hit me,” she stammered. “He kept on hitting me, he wouldn’t stop.” A shudder ran through her.

“Let me check the mobility in your neck?” John asked as he distracted her train of thought. Reaching up he gently set his hands on either side of her head. “Just tell me when you can't turn it any more?”

She nodded her head as he carefully turned her head one way, then the other. The shaking was more pronounced, and she winced at the pain. Heaving a sigh, Anne leaned her head into Lestrade's chest, closing her eyes wearily. Lestrade looked at John, the concern all over his face.

“It's just reaction, Greg. It's all starting to catch up with her. All the events that have happened. Plus resetting the knee. The confusion is normal as well the anxiety. We just need to keep an eye out for a few other signs. We also need to keep her awake and warm until help arrives.” He didn't have to tell Lestrade that he didn't want her having an acute stress reaction.

Lestrade listened to him intently, fully realizing that John himself had suffered all these thing when he had been traumatically injured in Afghanistan. He turned towards Sherlock.“Your coat,” he said.

“What about it?” Sherlock asked, beginning to rise.

“Hand it over,” Lestrade said flatly. “Now.”

“She's got two already.” Sherlock protested, waving a hand at Anne. He suddenly caught the look on John's face.

“Now!” Lestrade barked.

A look of petulance crossed his features as Sherlock stood over them.

Lestrade heaved as sigh of disgust. “Your coat, Sherlock!” He snapped his fingers, holding up his hand. “And I'll let you in on what I can regarding Moriarty.”

“You'll let me in on all of it.” Sherlock replied, stubbornly refusing to remove his coat.

“ _I_ don't even have full access to what's known about him! I can only tell you just so much and I'll have my _arse_ in a sling if anyone finds out!” Lestrade snapped at him. “But _you_ will tell me everything you know...” He added shooting a glare up at him.

Sherlock looked down at him, a sour expression on his face before he slowly peeled off his overcoat. He handed it to John. “There is something we need to remember...”

“What’s that?” John asked as he settled Sherlock's overcoat over Anne, tucking it around her. She was nearly engulfed by it.

“Anne's heard the name,” he suddenly focused his attention back on her again. “Anne...” Sherlock said to her. “You cannot, you absolutely cannot, mention that name to anyone, ever. Never mention it out in public. Do you understand?”

Anne looked at him in consternation before looking at Lestrade.

Lestrade nodded, meeting her gaze. “Believe him, Anne. You tell no one. You never talk about it. Outside of us.” He hated to see it, but the terror was creeping back into her eyes. “You should be fine, so long as no one else knows you heard his name.”

“But who is he?” She asked in a plaintive voice.

“We don't know,” Lestrade said. “We just know that association to that name can be deadly.”

Sherlock nodded affirmation. “He's far worse than the man who's been torturing you.”

Lestrade shot Sherlock a warning look.

“We also need to consider that all of that 'name dropping' was recorded on the camera,” Sherlock added.

Lestrade looked hard at Sherlock. Several disturbing implications were racing through his mind. “You said you were making the link private, right?”

“Between myself, the Yard, and whoever was posting the live feed. We need to have the Yard track that link. The camera was still running when I entered the room. Meaning that Anne's escape attempt would have been taped. As well as Elena's murder and the reason why she was murdered. It doesn't take a great leap to figure out that Anne would have heard it, being in the room still.”

Anne blearily opened her eyes, frowning. “Camera?” she asked.

“Yes, the video camera that was filming your torture.” Sherlock said blithely, looking intently at Lestrade. “We can't be sure that people at the Yard can be trusted with not revealing what Anne has witnessed. And we certainly don't know if the man himself may have been viewing the live feed right along with us.”

“Oh that's just great!” Lestrade growled sarcastically.

“Videoed?” Anne asked. Lestrade looked down at her. If she could get any paler, she did. “What do you mean videoed?” She asked him in dread. He could see the horror reappearing in her eyes as her mouth dropped open in shock.

“Your torture.” Sherlock said. “From the moment Weston entered the room, broke your finger, then came back to break your foot and dislocated your knee. Everything was filmed, and no doubt so was Elena's murder.”

Anne's vision suddenly seemed to constrict to just Lestrade's face as she whispered. “It was all filmed?”

“Anne...” Lestrade started, alarmed as he felt her shivering turn to tremors.

“Why?” She asked, appalled.

Sherlock carried on. “To torment Lestrade, mainly. Weston wanted to drive him mad before he got an opportunity to kill him out right.” Sherlock said. “It was also to provide Elena Grigorvich with a souvenir that the rival she has _detested_ for nearly a decade was being removed at last.”

Anne's eyes were enormous as she barely managed to whisper, “Elena? Souvenir?”

John and Lestrade's eyes met with mutual trepidation and before either could say anything, Sherlock was off and running.

“Yes, a souvenir. Elena Grigorovich has let her dislike for you _fester_ for years. The first six years you were with the company, you remained in the corps of general dancers and she didn't feel threatened. “However,” Sherlock went on in a continuous stream of consciousness flow. “When you were selected for promotion to First Soloist, Elena began doing things to try and prevent you from succeeding. Namely _insisting_ on overloading you with work. As her understudy, she did have some say over what it was you were to do. Only she never suspected you'd actually stick it out and do it. _Despite_ it driving a wedge between you and your husband. She wasn't about to let anyone know of this dislike and distrust because she didn't want her paranoia revealed. Which was losing her position in the company. That was until about a year ago,” Sherlock went on, barely taking a breath.

“Last year she learned that the board of directors were intending on promoting you to a Principal Soloist. _Equal_ in rank to herself and that would not do...” Sherlock was shaking his head. “She began searching around for some way to get rid of you permanently. She made contact with someone who learned that _you_ were none other than the wife of a Scotland Yard DI, whom they knew was the subject of a deep hatred by a prisoner about to be released and who wanted his revenge.”

Sherlock smiled at his summary. “John put it best. What you got was a match made in hell. And Elena Grigorvich wanted _proof_ that you were permanently dispatched from threatening her position at the company, ever again. Hence the filming. She wanted to see your career ended with injuries that would prevent you from ever being able to dance properly again.”

Silence greeted him and Sherlock became aware of two things. Lestrade was looking at him dangerously pissed off, and John was running his hand down his face in despair.

When John looked up at him, Sherlock frowned with uncertainty. “Problem?” he asked.

John just shook his head. “TMI, Sherlock, TMI. Anne, don't you faint on me!” John's focus shifted instantly. He reached up, slipping his hand by her neck, feeling her pulse.

“ _If_ I were able to get up just now, you and I would be having a serious discussion about this!” Lestrade snapped, his eyes blazing at Sherlock. “Preferable with a little help from a steel friend of mine!”

“What do you mean too much information? She asked, I told her the truth!” Sherlock protested.

“Oh god!” Lestrade groaned. He ran his hand through his hair, ruffling it further in frustration.

“Greg, please turn him off...” Anne implored in a strained whisper, her world swimming around her. She closed her eyes, trying to make it stop.

“Sherlock your timing sucks,” John said flatly, his attention divided. “Anne, take a deep breath for me, let it out slowly.”

From somewhere behind the group, in the darkened pub, came the sounds of something akin to the keening of a wounded animal. Sherlock's entire face changed and he let out a gasp of surprise. “Oh! Weston's waking up.” He slapped his hands together and rubbed them in glee. “I think I'll go have another little chat with him...”

“You do that,” John encouraged as Sherlock was already turning and walking back into the pub. He looked at Lestrade. “Was it the truth?” he asked him.

Lestrade, closing his eyes in weary relief, rubbed at them with a free hand and looked at John. “What's that?”

“What you said about not being able to get up?” John looked frankly at him.

Lestrade let out a soft snort and smiled ruefully. “I couldn't if I tried.”

“Right,” John said. “Here's the drill then, _Inspector_ ,” he said with emphasis. “When the police arrive, you are totally off duty, medically speaking. You will not get up and you won't leave your wife's side for one instant. I will handle them because I know the minute they discover who you are they will want you to walk them through this mess. And as your doctor, not to mention a concerned friend, you will not oblige them. Am I making myself perfectly clear?”

A smirk tugged at Lestrade's lips, as he met John's determined look with a spark of mischief in his eyes. “Yes, _Doctor_.”

“Good. Anne, stay awake for us now all right?” John said, making sure she responded.

In the far distance they could just make out the sound of sirens.

 **End Chapter 11**


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12 – Epilogue**

Several days passed and life at 221B had returned fairly quickly to what might be considered normal. Early one evening John was happily ensconced in his chair, cup of coffee at hand, a fire cheerily crackling, and the newspaper held in such a way as to hide the sight on the couch. He was resolute in ignoring his flatmate.

Sherlock, still in his pyjamas and blue robe, was sprawled inelegantly on the couch and occasionally complained, and for the umpteenth time, that he was bored out of his skull.

A chirp from John's mobile announcing an incoming text distracted them both. Near at hand, John lowered his paper and picked it up, glancing at the message. “Ah,” he said, “Lestrade's on his way over.” He glanced at Sherlock, staring intently up at the ceiling. “He says if there's any part of the human anatomy in his cafetiere to get it out now. Then sterilize it.”

Sherlock, snorting in disgust, shot John a disgruntled look and returned to staring at the ceiling. John's lips quirked in an impish smile and he folded up his paper.

Lestrade showed up minutes later, spending a moment or two talking to Mrs. Hudson before climbing the stairs to the lounge. He wasn't at all surprised that the door was open, it usually was, nor was he the least bit surprised to see Sherlock in his current state.

John noticed immediately that Lestrade looked a hundred percent better. Gone was the grey pallor and signs of pain. He was clean shaven and moved easily, looking more like his 45 years than double that. Though he still looked fatigued, it seemed more the mantle of his normal authority and heavy responsibilities than it was the stress of the recent past.

“You look a thousand percent better,” John remarked as Lestrade paused in the doorway, smirking at Sherlock.

“He's had his wife around for him to dote on.” Sherlock grumbled, still staring at the ceiling. “From the looks of things, you've had her at your place since her rescue. Am I seeing a change in weight? That ring is back on your finger...”

“Jealous, are we?” Lestrade asked, hiding his smile. Sherlock snorted in disgust.

“Finally had the thing resized, just picked it up on the way here. Decided to stop by to gather up my things. That cafetiere better be anatomy free,” Lestrade warned as John headed into the kitchen.

“Thing is useless for proper experimentation.”

“Meaning you've tried something,” Lestrade shot back. “Bored are you?”

“I washed it, thoroughly,” John replied from the other room, “And I am tempted to get one of my own. Makes some damned fine coffee. If I ever get any money to my name ever again, that is.”

“Sherlock run you up that bad?”

“That cab fare to Whitby alone was enough to set me back all year. How's Anne doing by the way?”

“Getting by. Sleeps a lot,” Lestrade commented. “But that's the painkillers mostly. They still don't know what state her knee is in. Not allowed to put any weight on that leg at all. Won't know for while yet if there's permanent damage.”

“Judging from what I felt of that patella, it was floating a little too freely.” John said, entering the living room with a bag. He handed it to Greg. “That can't be good for a dancer?”

“Not at all. Thanks.”

“She having any other reactions?”

“Some, nightmares mostly. At least she's home, resting. It's nice having her around again. We've let the studio flat go.”

“Really? She's moved back in?”

“Can't you tell?” Sherlock said sarcastically. “He's practically all aglow with the _domesticity_ of it all.”

“She's out of commission for at least six months and it just didn't make any sense to keep the place. So we let it go. And you're jealous.” Lestrade smirked at Sherlock.

Sherlock abruptly sat up, shooting an aggrieved look his way. “Make yourself useful Lestrade, tell me what you know about Moriarty, save me from this damned tedium. If he sits down with that newspaper one more time I am liable to finally commit that murder Donovan believes I'll do some day.”

“Not before I kill him first,” John pleasantly replied, flashing a tolerant smile around.

“Ah, flat mates.” Lestrade smiled that feral smile he was known for. John caught the mischief glinting in his dark eyes. “As for Moriarty, I'm afraid that has to wait.”

“Wait? What for?” Sherlock demanded.

“We’re leaving. Anne and I. Took my holiday and we're both on medical leave, so I'm taking her home for a month.”

“Home?” John asked. “To the States?”

“I promised her mother a visit. Her dad runs a resort in his retirement, in rural Montana. Sportsman's place, you know, hunting, fishing, boating. Nice and rustic, just the thing you hate.” Lestrade looked at Sherlock.

“I could sure as hell use a month at a resort...” John murmured.

“So tell me what you know _now_ , before you leave.” Sherlock demanded, looking hard at Lestrade.

“Sorry, old son. We're leaving tomorrow, still got things to arrange before we go. Anne won't get any proper rest here in London worrying about her dancing, figured a change of scenery would help. By the way, tell Mycroft thanks for providing you all that information about Elena Grigorovich. It went a long way on tidying up this case.”

“What the _hell_ are you talking about? Why would I go to _Mycroft_ about her?” Sherlock spat in disgust.

“Did some digging myself,” a smug Lestrade said. “Found out that Mycroft is a patron of the arts for the Royal Ballet. Where else could you go to get that information so damned fast?”

“I certainly wouldn't go to _him_ ,” Sherlock replied. “I'm _perfectly_ capable of finding out that information on my own.”

“Sure you did, and in such a way as to antagonize him into revealing it himself simply by not approaching him directly. I'm sure he's hatching something up now in retaliation.”

“Is Anne up for the travel? So soon?” John asked.

“She thinks so. Besides, we need to get away from London for a bit. With all the media firestorm going on about the case and my 'cutting corners' to 'solve' it so fast.”

“ _Hah!_ ” Sherlock barked in derision, flopping himself back down on the couch, folding his arms and huffing.

“I imagine your supers weren't too please about it,” John commented.

“The Chief Inspector for sure. The Super was pleased as hell, just couldn't show it publicly. Says he can't condone a rogue copper. Despite said copper finding his kidnapped wife in three days on medical leave while grievously wounded. Ah, the reporters are having a field day on this one. Giving our PR department fits.”

“So you're deciding to skip town for a while?”

“In a manner of speaking. Anything to dodge the paparazzi,” Lestrade remarked, then he looked a little awkward before adding, “So besides stopping by to get my things before I leave I also wanted to give my thanks, to both of you. Anne as well. Without you both, she most likely would have ended up dead.”

“Pah!” Sherlock dismissed him with the wave of his hand, continuing to stare at the ceiling.

“Least you can do is say you're welcome for breaking up your tedium,” Lestrade smirked at him.

“Finding her was child's play, something to do to pass the time while I try and figure out just what Moriarty is and what he does. _Least_ you could do is tell me what you know before you leave.” Sherlock sniped.

“Wha.., and take away any chances of you missing me while I'm gone?” Lestrade replied. “I wouldn't dream of telling you now.”

“You'll hardly be missed...” Sherlock replied caustically.

John just smirked and shook his head. “Well, you're more than welcome. I'm just glad I could help.”

“John, you saved my life, and the life of my wife. You were more than just a help,” Lestrade replied looking soberly at him. “He was too, for that matter. For what it was worth.” He nodded at Sherlock.

“Keep in touch while you're gone?” John asked.

“Yeah, we'll have our laptop with us. I've got your email.”

“Boring,” Sherlock intoned, “So boring!”

“Just keep me posted on how Anne is doing. If there is anything I can do to help...” John volunteered, reaching up to shake hands goodbye.

Lestrade nodded, flashing a slight smile at him as he gathered up the bag. He knew full well John was concerned about acute stress in Anne having gone through it himself. He gripped John's hand. “Better find something for him to do when he's like this. He gets destructive.”

“Uh, yeah, so I have noticed,” John cringed, casting a careful eye towards the skull poster, still covering the smiley under it.

Lestrade turned to go, pausing in the doorway. He reached up to stroke his chin thoughtfully a moment then fixed his gaze on Sherlock. “Just don't start in on your target practice again. Be glad I haven't found the pistol that caused the arrangement on the wall under the skull. If I do? I will have to do something about it.”

Sherlock's eyes nearly popped from his skull and John reached up to run his hand down his face.

Lestrade, fully in charge, mischievous glint in his eyes, smiled like a cheshire cat and glanced at John. “Like I mentioned before, I know criminal habits, and I especially know _his_.” He looked directly at Sherlock. He waved a finger at the right side of the wall. “I also know that damn poster has been on _that_ side of the wall for years. Nice try though, just don't let me find anything else out of place in here again.”

“Remind me never to invite you back!” Sherlock fired back.

“ _You_ never invited me, John did,” Lestrade said as he turned to go.

“Have a nice trip,” John called after him, his voice strained, appallingly weak.

“Preferably down the stairs,” Sherlock replied waspishly.

“Behave, Sherlock, if you possibly can,” Lestrade's said heading down stairs.

“You owe me, Lestrade!” Sherlock shouted.

“We'll talk, after I get back.” His voice drifted up, before they heard the front door shutting.

“An entire month? In the States? He'll be _insufferable_ when he gets _back_.” He stressed the 'k'.

“At least he won't be as insufferable as you are right now. God, how could I possibly think he wouldn't notice the damn bullet holes?”

“He's Lestrade.” Sherlock grumbled. “He may not be the brightest crayon in the box, but he's a damned sight better than most of those other gits at the Yard.”

“Seems to me he has _you_ pegged pretty damned well,” John shot back.

Sherlock only snorted his derision, folding his arms in a huff and stared sourly at the ceiling.

John sat down in his chair and a strange silence filled the room before he suddenly began to giggle. “I can't believe you tried to hide that smiley from him.”

Sherlock shot an aggrieved look his way, but then after a moment, his lips tugged up in a smirk. “Should have realized he'd have figured it out, even if he was half out of his mind in pain and grief.”

There was another pause, then Sherlock abruptly got to his feet, standing on the couch. He reached over and grabbed the framed poster, moving it back to its original place. He checked to make sure that it was straight then flopped back down again. He cupped his hands behind his head, glancing at the bullet holes in the wall, and a sly smirk played across his lips.

 **End**

Sherlock Holmes and its attending characters are in the public domain now. But this fantastic version is the property of Gatiss and Moffit and the BBC.

Copyright Notice

1\. The characters and stories of Sherlock are Copyright © of Hartswood Films, Mark Gatiss and Stephen Moffet and the powers that be at the BBC and are used here without permission or license.  
No claims to the above copyright are made by the author of this work.  
This work is for non-commercial use ONLY, and is produced for the enjoyment of fans only.  
2\. This work is the expression of the author and the depiction of the Sherlock characters herein are in no way represented to be a part of Sherlock as depicted by the authors and copyright holder(s).

Post notes.

Several things.

Anne being toted out of the flat in the suitcase is based on a real crime occurring in Florida involving a serial killer. When the police couldn't figure out how a woman was murdered or how she ended up being found where she was, the case was given to a private investigator. He saw only man present on the video's of the woman's hotel. He was seen leaving with a suitcase that he had to tug hard to get out of the elevator. The private detective knew that there was heavy weight in it. Turned out that the body had been placed in the suitcase by the man and he literally walked out of the hotel with his murder victim. Turns out that he had done this on several occasions through out the country and was finally caught for his crimes.

Anne's reminding herself of what Lestrade taught her to fight back and try to escape even if it gets you killed is based on the real events of a close friend of mine. She was raised in Chiapas, Mexico, one of seven siblings. Her doctor father taught all his children that mantra. In 2009, she was actually kidnapped at gunpoint in Queretero, Mexico with another woman. Heeding her fathers advice, she literally fought her way out of the car they were being held in. She and the woman escaped. She reasoned that if she ended up dead there in Queretero, at least her husband and four children would find her body and have closure. I borrowed that mantra for Anne's situation. What I didn't borrow from my friends real-life situation was the extraordinary FACT that she was eight months pregnant with her fifth child. A month after this event, she gave birth to a beautiful healthy baby boy!

John's resetting Anne's knee unexpectedly? Is based on my own incident of getting my dislocated shoulder reset unexpectedly. Yes, it did hurt!

Hope you all enjoyed this. Comments are greatly appreciated and used to encourage more fic out my extremely fickle muses... Email me at theteej2 @ gmail.com.


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